


Honey and the Hatchet

by cambria



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: BTW, Case Fic, Eventual Sex, F/M, Fortune Telling, Murder, Named Reader, POV Second Person, Reader is a fortune teller, Reader is legal, Reader is not a psychic, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, and im only on season 5, because i could not find a reader centric fic i wanted, first fic in this fandom, this is really just self indulgence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambria/pseuds/cambria
Summary: You've found the body of a serial killer's latest target. A friendly neighborhood Old Man. You're more honest than most of the kids that have run through the CBI offices. And you're a fortune teller. Alright, so Jane's found the honey pot in you. Now, where's the hatchet? ( Updates eventually, I just suck at punctuality in writing )





	1. Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this upon being encouraged by one (1) person on Tumblr. I mentioned I was writing a slow burn fic and they wanted to get spit roasted. Hopefully this isn't too horribly disappointing; not sure if I'll continue past this though?

You sit patiently at a stainless steel table a the the CBI headquarters. It’s nearly midnight, and you wish you could think of better things to do. Think of other things at all, actually. Clear your mind of the corpse that had been lingering in it for the past several hours was something you desperately wanted.

“Miss Benraft?” A woman enters the ceiling-less room. You can’t help but notice how much confidence she exudes as she walks. You perk at the mention of your name and sit straighter. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long,” the agent apologizes and takes a seat in front of you. “I’m special agent Lisbon, this is Patrick Jane.” She gestures at the man who follows behind her.

He deposits a cup of tea in its saucer in front of you before sitting himself next to agent Lisbon. You incline your head in acknowledgement and cautiously bring the cup of tea to your lips. You’re pleasantly surprised; it’s sweet and doesn’t actually scorch your mouth. There’s the tell-tale sign of honey, what you’re sure is green tea, and a fruity note you can’t quite place.

    “Can you tell us what happened, Miss Benraft?,” agent Lisbon asks quietly and patiently. She seems like a wonderful person. Honest, patient, very strong. You keep your eyes downcast, attempting to stare through the bottom of your startlingly yellow teacup.

    “Tommy’s a local favourite,” you start slowly, trying to calm yourself to better recall the series of events. “I was walking home from a café and his house is on the way. His wife passed a few years ago so we, uh, you know. The other people my age. We make a point to make sure he’s okay, right? So when I noticed the front door was open I didn’t think much of it? Someone probably popped in to say hi, or something, no one really locks their door in that neighborhood.  
    “When I noticed the driver and passenger doors to his car were open, I got a little worried? So I walked up to touch the hood and it was cold. Um. That’s… the car had been off for a while, right? So I guessed he wasn’t bringing in groceries, and, um.”

    You paused uncomfortably and closed your eyes. Terrible idea; you could see the blood in the living room. You took a shaky breath and put the teacup back in its saucer. You flattened your hands against the cool table and screwed your face. This day could not be over fast enough.

    “It’s alright, Skye,” Lisbon offers softly, placing one of her hands on the table as well. Leans forward. Bless this woman, you think. She’s great at her job.

    You don’t see Mr Jane’s hand moving to cover your left one. The warmth startles you. Knee bangs against a table leg, teacups rattle in their saucers. You mutter a quick panicked apology. Notice that the hand still covers your.

    “You’re safe with us, Miss Benraft,” Mr Jane says quietly, his thumb barely rubbing yours. You look at both your hands on the table and frown. It’s the only expression your face seems capable of, right now. “Just breathe, slowly. In, and out. Just focus on your own breathing. In… and out.”

    He continues that way for a moment, and you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You breathe as he tells you regardless, feel the tension ebbing from your muscles. Flowing out. Shoulders slump with a stuttering sigh. Apparently satisfied, Jane removes his hand and leans back in his chair, crosses his legs. Looks at Lisbon. Oh, yeah, that’s self satisfaction all over his face.

    You continue forcing yourself to breathe steadily. “Right, sorry, it’s just…”

    “We can do this tomorrow if you need to,” agent Lisbon offers helpfully. You shake your head. “Alright. Take your time.”

    You don’t quite laugh; the sound is choked and probably sounds more painful than intended. You clear your throat. Steel yourself, and continue.

    “So. The car hadn’t been on for a while, the doors were open and the front door was open, and I got worried.”

    “Why didn’t you call 911 right away?” Lisbon’s tone is soft and inquisitive; you don’t read the accusation in your voice that you think is there.

    “He’s ninety… Tommy was 93, he was old. Old people tend to uh. Well, forget? Things? So I thought, maybe he just got distracted, and I didn’t really want to deal with upset first responders because I called emergency services for no reason, so I mean. I waited to see if there was actually something wrong.  
    “So, I went up to the front door and noticed that the frame was busted at the handle and I just. I, um.”

    Take a deep, steadying breath. Warm hand on your again. Jane’s face is so impassive. He barely seems disturbed by any of this. Lisbon seems far more upset by this murder than he does.

    You remember to think about it later.

    “I dialed 911 when I saw that. I was calling out for him when I walked through the door and that’s. That’s, uh. The kitchen’s down the hallway when you come in and the living room’s just of to the right and that. That’s… jesus christ.”

    You stop yourself when you feel a lump rising in your throat. Down the rest of the tea, hope the heat will help dissolve the anxiety and fear. You’re so close to being done, to being able to go home. Though, really, you’re not sure you want to. It doesn’t feel nearly as safe right now.

    “That’s when you found him,” Jane completes, helpfully and thankfully. You nod and screw your eyes shut again. Not vomiting while recalling the image is hard. You manage, somehow.

    “Yeah. Yeah that’s when I saw the body. He was white a snow and there was. Just, there was so much blood, and his eyes were open? And he wasn’t… it didn’t look like he was breathing so I, I just… What happened? After that? I don’t remember.”

    You place the teacup back in its saucer with a slightly louder clanging of porcelain than you’d like. Agent Lisbon and Mr Jane look at each other with a look that probably holds an entire conversation that you’re blissfully unaware of.

    “Did you see anything, before going inside the house?,” Lisbon asks, with a hint of hesitation that you don’t miss. You shake your head slowly. “Nobody, no cars around?”

    “I don’t think so, no. What happened? You two look like you know something I don’t,” you try again, wringing your hands in your lap and leaning forward.

    Jane clearly his throat and leans on the table with his elbows. His posture feels conspirational. You can’t quite figure out what’s bothering you about it.

    “Well, Skye, the 911 recording has you on hysterics on the phone and then just, nothing.” He motions vaguely in front of him before clasping his hands together. “EMTs found you in Thomas’ kitchen looking into the sink and kind of muttering to yourself.”

    Don’t look at him directly, and frown at his hands. “...was the sink full?” You repeat yourself; you’d asked too quietly the first time.

    Lisbon frowns at Jane before looking at you. “Yeah, it was. Did you do that?”

    “I don’t…” You shake your head. “I don’t know, I can’t remember what I did after dialing 911. Do you know what I was saying?” You grab the edge of the table in front of you, look at the agent.

    “EMTs said they couldn’t make out what you were saying,” she replied, although it feels uneasy.

    “Something about a hatchet and a river,” Jane adds. Frown deeper. A hatchet? There’s no river near your neighborhood either? “Does that mean anything to you, Skye?”

    Shake your head again. Haven’t seen a hatchet in years; haven’t had the need for one, really. The sink, though, it still bothers you. Silence hangs for a moment after that. More and more people start milling around. A skeleton crew to staff the early hours of this investigation is your best guess. You run a hand down your face. Through your hair.

    What a shitty day.

    If you hadn’t gone for coffee, maybe…

    “Well, Miss Benraft, I think that’ll be—” agent Lisbon begins, but you interrupt her.

    “Sorry, uh, was the sink—the water in it, was it clear? Was it like, dishwater? Or something?”

    Lisbon frowns. “It was clear,” Mr Jane replies smoothly. Ah, there is is. Some kind of facial expression on him that doesn’t look forced. He looks genuinely intrigued, if not a little confused.

    You nod to yourself. “One um. One last thing? I don’t really feel safe going back home. I mean I live close by so is. Is there anywhere..?”

    You leave the question hanging, but agent Lisbon seems to get the gist of it. “Sure, of course. I can see about booking a room at a nearby hotel for you and have someone stand guard, if that’s okay?”

    “Oh nonsense Lisbon,” Jane pipes up. The eagerness in his voice does nothing for the tension back in your body. “She can stay here, can’t see? I wouldn’t mind talking with her more.” He turns to you, and there’s something not quite right between his expression and what’s in his eyes. “Would that be alright with you, Miss Benraft?”

    Off guard, you flounder for words. “Um, sure? I mean I don’t mind? Is that really okay? I mean it’s not like I saw anything and I really don’t want to get in the way—” You turn to agent Lisbon but she seems to be nearly as confused as you are. She’s about to reply, but gets waved off by Jane.

    “Of course it’s fine. You said you can’t remember what happened after the call, right? I can help you remember.” He stands and take both your teacups and offers his elbow to help you up. “Come on, I’ll make you another cup of tea."


	2. Tuscan Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the 2 people who left kudos? Within the first few hours???? That is more than enough to keep me writing a little more. Also, any suggestions an input about where to take this is 1000% welcome. 
> 
> Also you can follow me on tumblr @ the-jackals!

 

You're still a little bit in shock if you're to be honest. You weren't born yesterday, you know who Patrick Jane is. Heard about him shooting a potentially innocent man. Read up about the Red John murders. Still not sure whose psych profile is more interesting. Either way, they're both a little touched in a head. You thank your stars that Mr Jane is on the Good Side.

Probably.  
  
A few minutes later has you sitting on an old leather couch not too far from the stainless steel table. Full, warm mug of tea in hand rather than a small cup. You can't remember where, but you've read that holding a warm beverage is a comforting thing.  
  
You're desperately trying to find the comfort in the situation.  
  
"So tell me, Skye. You mind if I call you Skye?" You shake your head. Skye's fine. It's not like you want or expect high society manners anyways. "Great. What do you do?"  
  
He sips his tea. He looks so carefree. Unsure if that's a façade or legitimate sociopathy. You correct yourself: psychopathy. Jury's still out on the existence of the former. You decide it doesn't matter just now.  
  
"I work at a book store," you answer quietly, raising your eyes to meet Jane's when you catch yourself staring down into your mug again. You were raised better than that. "About... a little over two years now, probably. Friend of the family owns it."  
  
Mr Jane nods like what you said means something. Maybe it does. Cold reading is a strange thing. You remind yourself to steady your breathing and still your limbs. _Remember to always look up to the left. Never the right.  
_  
You vaguely think that this is good practice.  
  
"Mm, right, yes, I know that much. But mean for fun. In your spare time. You draw?" He motions at your right hand. Good call.  
  
You nod. "Yeah. Been drawing since I was a kid. I mostly, um. I do digital art now. My hands usually shake too much for a pencil to be any good."  
  
"Anxiety issues." It's not a question, but you nod. Jane hums and sips at his tea again. You remember to drink yours.  
  
It's not as sweet this time but somehow it's a pleasant change of pace. Not fruity undertones either. His steady gaze on you is unnerving. It looks expectant. You wonder what gave away that you hadn't mentioned everything.  
  
"You're not gonna like the other thing," you add quietly, turning the mug in your hands. The warmth is more like searing heat, actually. Your palms are sweating. _Don't think about the body. Don't think about the body. Steady breathing._  
  
"Try me."  
  
Deep breath. Close eyes. Try and let the tension seep from your muscles.  
  
"Fortune telling." You can almost feel him tense at the mention of it. You told him so. "Since I was in middle school. Tarot cards, runes, um. That kind of thing. The owner of the store lets me do free readings at the back on Friday nights so..." You trail off and stare at your shoes. You distantly wonder what they say about you.  
  
"There's no such thing—"  
  
"—as psychics," you finish, cutting Jane off. "I know. I never said I was a psychic, either. You asked what I did in my spare time, so there you go." You try and sound confident and stable. Voice is too weak to come off as anything other than tired. Which you very much are.  
  
Again, Mr Jane makes a rather nondescript, noncommittal sound. Leans back against a desk (probably his?) and contemplates you. The scrutiny is really starting to make you feel uneasy. You clear your throat. Tea is half gone now. You're considering if you'll want more.  
  
"You uh, you said you could help me remember. What happened after the call?"  
  
"Oh, that. Right. Have you ever been hypnotized?"

 

* * *

 

You're lead up a flight of stairs into a loft that doesn't look like it belongs in the same building. There are boxes lining pretty much every wall. They're all clearly labeled as having to do with Red John. A little disconcerting. Proof of obsession is always awkward to look at. Like an invasion of privacy. The mattress and pillow on a table off to your right reinforce that. Does he sleep here? Live here? What the hell. 

Mr Jane pulls hour a chair for you. At a desk, on the back wall, by the window. The sight of the city at night isn't as beautiful as you thought it would be.

"Take a seat," he instructs. "Make yourself comfortable. Nothing's going to hurt you here."

Of course he'd say that. All hypnotists say that. _You're safe_ and _there's nothing to worry about_ and _nothing is permanent_. Last hypnotist you saw messed you up but good. You want to laugh at the reassurances. But honestly, they're welcome. You don't feel safe in your own skin. 

You sit down in an old barely padded wooden chair. Jane pulls out a folding chair from... where, exactly? He sits across you, leans his elbows on his knees and offers his hands, palm up. Strange but, okay. You'll bite. As soon as you place your hands on top of his, something feels strange. Off. His index and major fingers make short work of finding the pulse at both your wrists.

You mirror the motion. Not quite sure why. Feels like reciprocation might be alright. If nothing else, the way Mr Jane arches a brow is satisfying enough. Something seems to alight behind his eyes, and he settles in his chair a little more. Leans forward just a little bit more.

"Alright, well, since you're there," he begins, quietly, smoothly. You think about how you might be able to listen to him speak like that all day. Night; whatever. Would make a killing with ASMR videos, probably. "I need you to close your eyes, listen only to my voice, and focus on the pulse at my wrist. Can you do that?"

Odd instructions. But, okay. Yes. You nod, press a little more into Jane's wrist to properly feel the blood pumping there. His heart rate is ridiculously slow and even. Little bit envious.

"Just feel the beat of it. Imagine the veins, the arteries. The valves in the heart. One beat in, one beat out. The constant flow of blood through the body. Always flowing." 

You could seriously fall asleep like this. Somewhere in your mind, you remind yourself that yes, _moron_ , that is entirely the point. 

You let yourself be lulled into a blissful state of between. Not quite conscious, but also not quite _not_. The nothingness is unsettling, a little, but the absence of most everything is oddly comforting. You hear Mr Jane like he's in a distant room. Voice barely reaching you, your thoughts. 

"You're on the front stoop at Tommy's. The door-"

"The door was smashed open," you finish, gritting your teeth.

You were on your way home from the café. More research, more information to collect. You've been looking into getting into university for a while, but you have no spare cash to blow on anything but rent and food. Cafés and restaurants are a good place for some peace and quiet. All you need to do is ask for a coffee refill now and again. You don't cause any trouble, you're a paying customer; most places are more than happy to have you around. At least you're not a rambunctious drunkard.

You tend to take the long way home. Why not? You enjoy talking to the few personable people in the neighborhood. It's a nice place. Safe. Wait. Not it isn't. Tommy's-

"Just breathe, Skye. You're fine." Jane's voice brings you back down from a bout of panic. "It's just a memory. The door was forced open. What did you do next?"

"I called 911, a woman answered. I started saying that someone's been broken into when I, I... god. There's so much blood," you whimper. The thumb at your left wrist barely helps you trudge on forward. "The operator kept asking me if I was okay, what's wrong. I think... I could just say 'he's dead' over and over again. I can barely get the address out. Dear god. 

"What happened then, Skye? Did you hang up?"

You shake your head resolutely. "No, no the operator asked me to stay on the line with her, so I did."

"And what did you do? What did the operator ask you to do?"

Slowly, you find that the knot in your stomach and the lump in your throat ease up a little. Strange.

"She asked me if I had somewhere safe to go to and wait for emergency services to come. I said yes."

"But you didn't leave," Jane completes. Nod; there's no lying about that. "Why did you stay, Skye?"

"I... I needed to see something, so I went to the kitchen. I think, I put the stopper in the drain and waited it to fill with cold water."

"Why cold water? Why the sink?"

You open your mouth and shut it once. Twice. You want to say why but something is making it incredibly difficult to get the words out. The thumb's rubbing at your wrist again. The warmth from the friction makes you feel odd in a way you can't put words to.

"I, I can't..." You groan, wincing. You don't quite try to pull away. Lean back a little, maybe.

"It's okay, you can tell me. Nothing's going to happen to you." He sounds so compelling. You almost want to believe him

You let yourself believe that you do.

"Scry. I wanted to scry."

Everything is tense and you feel the distinct need to vomit. _Deep breaths, even breathing_ , and the urge doesn't quite pass but at least it's not overwhelming. The thumb at your wrist has stopped moving.

"What did you see." It's not a question. It's a demand. Disbelief, anger, resolution. You're not sure what you hear in his voice.

"A hatchet buried by a river."

You hear someone take a deep breath. Definitely disbelief then. Unpleasant. A hand leaves you and returned to a shoulder.

"When I tap your shoulder, you're going to look outside and feel relaxed. You're going to be starving, and the next thing you eat is going to be the best thing you've had in weeks." Two small tap on your left shoulder. Sharp intake of breath.

You stare at Mr Jane with a frown. It feels like a dream you woke up from a few minutes ago. Everything was so clear, but now it feels like everything is slipping away from you. You try to recall what was said and come up empty. You feel like a fish out of water; mouth opens, closes. Opens again. No words come out. You're starving.

"I'll take you back," Jane says quietly, stands and extends a hand to you. Flatten your hands against your thighs. You've worn these jeans all day. Unsure if you want to eat first of ask for a change of clothes.

Nevertheless, you take the hand and stand on uncertain legs. Autopilot; you follow down a flight of stairs, past the dull hum of activity, into an office. Told that someone will come get you, that you've got a hotel room somewhere near home. Close enough to be comfortable, far enough to be safe. You sit in the office for a few minutes before someone opens the door again.

"Hi, I'm agent Van Pelt," the woman says. Her hair is striking to you. Leaves you a little envious, if you're honest. She seems nice. Tired, frustrated (with a hint of something else?) but otherwise sympathetic. "Miss Benraft?" You nod and stand, walk over to the door to shake her hand. "I'll be taking you to your room now, okay? We have an officer who'll keep an eye out for you just in case. 

Nod again. Exit the office behind the agent and follow quietly. "Is um, does someone have my bag? I came here with a messenger back, it's black, but I don't..."

"Oh, right yeah, of course, just a sec, I'll go get that for you."

Wait awkwardly by the elevator. Agent Lisbon and Mr Jane seem to be having some kind of argument down the hallway. Agent Van Pelt returns with your bag and makes sure you've got anything you need.

"Whatever I'm missing I can probably get at the motel, right?" You get into the elevator, fidget anxiously with the strap of your bag. Something unsettles you but you can't quite put your finger of what that is. Feels like unfinished business.

"Probably, yeah," the agent replies, reaching in her jacket pocket to pull out a business card. "Give me a call if you need anything though? Or if you remember something. Every detail helps." You nod and contemplate the name and numbers on the card. Grace feels like a very appropriate name for her, actually.

You have no idea where you're going and follow agent Van Pelt around, eyes on her heels. You take a moment to enter her number in your phone; you never know. Maybe you will remember something.

The car ride is calm, peaceful. Van Pelt leaves the radio off, leaves you to stare out the passenger window at the passing lights. The drive is nearly an hour, from the office in Sacramento to a small town north of Yuba. The agent gets a call or two in the meanwhile. You don't pay attention; you're halfway to sleeping when she pulls over in front of a motel. Thankfully, it seems like the more reputable kind. A local officer greets her.

Grab your bag, get out of the SUV, stop in your tracks.

You're at the Riverside Motel.


	3. Citrine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the people on FF.net for leaving such kind review for this story over there; the amount of support, though small, is still a little overwhelming. The fandom there seems to be a pretty small but tight-knit community, so I look forward to keep writing this story!

Agent Van Pelt doubles back for you when she realizes you aren't behind her. Puts a hand on your shoulder and tries to get your attention. Asks too many questions to answer consecutively. Gently push the agent back, lean against the SUV. Cover your face with your hand and tighten your grip on your bag's strap.

It's probably around three in the morning and you are too sober for this. Attempt to steady yourself. Breathe in deeply, in and out. In. And out.

"A hatchet by the river," you explain hurriedly. The agent pulls out of phone. "I have no idea, but. This, it's the Riverside Motel? Is that a coincidence?"

Van Pelt frowns at you and nods. "It's worth asking about." Turns away and speaks with someone over the phone.

You don't bother listening in on the conversation.

Walk ahead of agent Van Pelt so she can see you walking off, gives you a short nod. The motel is two storeys high and can't have more than thirty rooms than you can see. The front desk is at the far left of the building. You're headed inside but stop a few feet in front of the door. There are dumpsters off to the left, pressed against the side of the building.

You look at the receptionist inside. Looks bored as hell, probably playing a game on her phone. No, that... Alright, you don't want to interrupt whoever she's texting with.

You walk towards the dumpsters.

* * *

 

It's five in the morning and Lisbon hasn't had any sleep in over twenty four hours. Glares daggers at a sleeping Jane in the passenger seat. Yes, maybe she resents his ability to sleep _literally anywhere_ a little.

Parks next to Van Pelt's car and shakes Jane awake maybe a little too violently. Whatever, got him awake. Moving on.

"Skye says she found a gun in one of the dumpsters," agent Van Pelt explains unprompted. "We're having it checked for prints, but there was something else in there."

Both women approach the dumpsters; the area's riboned off. Local PD are milling about, and one of them turns around to greet them.

"A machete? The victim was just shot."

Van Pelt shrugs. "No idea, but it's hard to believe it was just thrown out next to a gun for no reason."

"Where's Skye right now?," Jane asks; Lisbon makes a face at him.

"She's in room 207. She looked pretty freaked out," Van Pelt provides, and Jane strides off.

* * *

 

There's a knock on your door. It sets your heart racing. You know how things are starting to look. Try to steady your breathing; your cardiac rhythm is a lost cause. You time your steps with your pulse. There's an officer outside the door, you remind yourself. They wouldn't let just anyone in.

Open the door. Sigh, place a hand over your chest. "Mr Jane, right. Uh, come in, I guess."

You move out of the way, close the door behind him. He immediately goes to the small kitchenette. You can already assume what for. Turns around to ask something, but you cut him off.

"Yeah. I'll have a cup too, please."

Mr Jane hums in some kind of understanding and sets the small kettle to boil. You sit in the chair at the small desk in the room. Fold your hands in your lap, try to keep yourself from wringing them.

"A hatchet by the river, huh," Mr Jane mutters to himself. Though you're relatively sure he's thinking aloud for you to hear. "How did you know?" Doesn't turn around to face you.

You clear your throat. "When I was..." You hesitate. It does feel honestly ridiculous to say out loud. "When I was scrying, in the um. In the sink? I saw a hatchet buried by a river. I figured the hatchet was the murder weapon because symbolism's weird that like but I didn't really know." You trail off as the water begins to bubble.

"And then you saw the name of this motel," he finished for you, pouring the water over a teabag in one of two mugs. You have no idea what kind of tea it is.

You take the mug out of Jane's hands with a quiet thank you. He sits in the arm chair a few feet away from you. Crosses his legs, looks at you in that way that makes you feel uneasy. Takes a sip of his tea, doesn't make the face you would have expected from someone who's just scalded the inside of their mouth.

"You should pull out your cards," he says after a while. You frown at him, forget that the tea is hot enough to burn. Your tongue feels like sandpaper.

"Um, what? My tarot cards? How did you even—"

He cuts you off and leans forward. "Please."

The honesty and underlying urgency in his tone makes you pause. You stand and get your bag from the bed anyways. You pull out the worn heirloom deck. Uncertainty makes your movements slow. You sit back in your chair, motion to Mr Jane to pull the armchair over to the desk.

"What should I do?," you ask with a frown, shuffle your deck.

Jane shrugs his shoulders, but doesn't say anything. You pause your shuffling and stare at him.

"Fortune teller," you say, a little more irritably than you'd like. "Not psychic. I can't read minds," you add, gesture ad your temple with your deck.

He chuckles and concedes. "Alright, alright. How about you read me?"

You huff and lean back in your chair. "That wouldn't be fair," you state. Sigh when you get an inquisitive tilt of the head. "You want to see what I can do, right? That... I know too much about you for it to be fair. If I draw the Tower for you, I don't have to guess that it means tragic loss. I already know that."

Something in Jane's eyes seem to shift. His face tenses. Right, wrong thing to bring up, you guess. You take a deep breath, try to steady your pulse. Hand the deck over.

"Shuffle them and think of a question or a problem you'd like to get advice for," you instruct. Keep trying to bring your heart rate down, with marginally more success. Slipping into the Customer Service Role usually makes social interactions easier.

You're handed the cards back after what feels like a long minute. You're sure you're just imagining it, but you felt something like a static shock when you take the cards. Feel something throb in your chest, electricity in your veins. You swallow thickly; this isn't going to be fun at all.

You close your eyes and get to work.

You draw six cards, the first five being laid in a cross and the sixth laid across the center card. Something bubbles in your chest, and you draw two more cards, place them off to the right. Open your eyes after a few seconds, dare look up to Mr Jane for a second. Still looking at you intently. Alright, then.

You flip the far left card. " _Five of swords_. Mind games and betrayal, hostility in your past," you explain. Flip the center card. " _Knight of Pentacles in reverse_ , your present. You're bored, things are stagnating. You're looking for something to make things move faster, but it's going to be reckless." Flip the card to the right and pause. "The— _the Tower_. Dramatic upheaval comparable to disastrous change. This is the projected outcome, if you keep going the way you are."

You take a deep steadying breath. You can already see where this is going and no part of you likes it. Your stomach is in knots and you can feel the tension straining the muscles in your back. This is so much easier when you're not reading someone who can read _your entire body_.

Flip the top card. " _The High Priestess_. She's what you need to look up to in order to succeed. Someone who's in touch with themselves, a high power." You chance another look up. You see recognition on Mr Jane's face. Someone immediately came to mind, then. That's... probably a good thing.

Flip the bottom card. " _The Devil_ is what you should avoid. Obsession and addiction, tying yourself down to something you can't escape by yourself." You don't look up anymore.

You flip the card on top of the center one. " _The Knight of Wands_ is the card that was drawn to represent you. Passionate, impulsive and craving action and adventure."

You frown at the two cards you set off to the right, and flip them consecutively. You spend a few seconds like this, blissfully uninterrupted, until you figure out what they are.

"I usually just draw five cards and that's it, but sometimes I feel like I have to draw more," you explain quickly, picking up the two 'spare' cards. "It feels like these are two continuations of the Tower future. In one," you pick up the _Ten of Cups_. "You pay attention to the High Priestess' advice, seek advice from someone above yourself, and reach fulfillment. Let yourself slip in with the Devil," you pick up the _Six of Wands_. "And the only thing I can remember is 'falling from grace'. Wherever you started from won't be available to you and you'll alienate a good amount of people."

You bite your lip and carefully try to measure the words you want to say. Mr Jane thankfully stays quiet while you figure this out.

"Right now you're still on the edge," you begin carefully, gathering the cards together to put them away. "You're still not sure if you want to go down that rabbit hole, because someone actually cares about what happens to you now. You're still wondering if the consequences of what you want to do are going to be worth it." You stand, resolutely avoid looking anywhere near the armchair. Put the cards away, toss your bag back on your bed.  
"And until you make a choice, I can't tell you for sure what's going to happen. I can only give you the general idea of the ending each choice is going to give you."

You sit back down and pull your legs up, put your hands on top of your knees. Tap your fingers rhythmically on them and wait for some kind of feedback. Jane remains silent, though he's looking down into his mug. You chew at the inside of your cheek and decide that sipping at your tea again probably isn't a bad idea. This time you can actually taste the jasmine in the green tea, now that it's cooled down a bit.

"Well that's certainly enlightening," Mr Jane eventually says, startling you. "What do you think that's about?"

The interest and curiosity is genuine in the question. But you can hear the doubt and skepticism, could probably hear it from a mile away. You frown, keep the mug of tea close to your chest.

"Your obsessive vendetta against Red John," you state simply. You feel the lump rising in your throat. This is uncharted territory, for you, and you know it's one filled with landmines. You're only answering because you were asked; you have no interest in being roasted by a professional mentalist.

Jane makes something akin to an appreciative sound that's almost a hum, nods once. Goes back to drinking his tea. then, "Did you kill Tommy?"

Your mouth hangs open for a few seconds as the question registers. You almost have the time for an outraged response, but Mr Jane abruptly stands up.

"Obviously not; more tea?" You shake your head, mouth still agape. Your mug's still half full. A murder suspect? Really? Did that usually work? "Right, well."

He dithers by the small sink, his back to you. Something in your chest throbs again, more painful than electrifying this time. You take in a sharp breath; Jane turns around at the sound. You clear your throat again, put your mug on the desk and stand.

"Can I—do you mind... staying a bit?," you ask, trying as best you can to maintain eye contact. Don't blink too much, don't clench your jaw. "I don't normally um, get the. The chance? To talk to people who are as good at cold reading as you are."

Jane chuckles and it sounds dismissive. But he removes his jacket nonetheless, returns to his spot in the arm chair. Gestures for you to sit down as well. Your shoulders still feel stiff as hell, but as least you can feel some of the tension leave your back. It's a small victory. You won't question why he's staying; the anxiety and fear is probably pretty clear on _all of you_.

"Alright, miss Fortune Teller, we'll start easy. What do you know?"


	4. Sunglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting a good amount of feedback and I am absolutely stoked. Please R&R if you've got the time!
> 
> Don't forget that you can follow me at the-jackals.tumblr.com for various shenanigans!

You wake up slowly and lazily. No fanfare. And no idea when you fell asleep to begin with. Panic shakes you awake; you don't recognize the room you're in. You stumble to the door before you remember. The murder, the blood, the hours of driving here and there.

Lean against the door, press your forehead against it. Tommy's death feels so unreal. Just yesterday morning you said hello, talked about his newborn grandson. Let yourself hyperventilate for a bit before trying to take deep breaths. Christ, who's going to take care of Peekaboo?

Wait.

Turn around too fast and lose balance. You have no idea where your phone is. Thankfully, that doesn't seem necessary. Mr Jane looks to be asleep in the arm chair. Pulled it back to where it was, away from the desk. His jacket is still on the counter in the small kitchenette.

You dig through the pockets to find his phone; blissfully unlocked. Everyone also is thankfully entered with their actual names.

"Jane where the hell have you been?" Agent Lisbon sounds extremely upset and out of breath. It takes you a second to be able to answer. She sounds entirely different from yesterday.

"Um, Agent Lisbon? It's Skye Benraft?"

"Oh. Oh my god, Miss Benraft I'm so sorry. I thought..." Can almost hear her pinch the bridge of her nose. "What can I help you with?" Voice still has an edge to it, but she sounds much more like the agent you spoke to earlier.

"Sorry, I just—Agent Van Pelt told me to call if I remembered anything and you were the first name I recognized in Mr Jane's phone, uh. He stayed the night. I mean! Jesus no he kept me company? God all of that sounds wrong, shit." Take another stuttering breath.

"I'm sorry, Miss Benraft, but I'm—"

"No, it's—the dog, Tommy had a dog. A tiny black and white thing? God I really don't know what race it is, just that her name is Peekaboo and she wasn't in the house when I was there," you finish with a sigh, run a nervous hand through your hair.

"It's possible the dog just ran off after the murder. The door was left open," Lisbon tries to reason. If it had been any other dog and any other person, you might have been inclined to agree.

"No, no Peekaboo never stayed more than ten feet away from Tommy. He'd walk her without a leash all the time and in the eight years I've been in that neighborhood she's never run away before."

Agent Lisbon is fairly quiet for a moment. You hear a door opening and closing and conversations in the distance.

"Do you have any idea if the dog was a pure bred? Some kind of show dog?," agent Lisbon asks. You frown; it's not hard to recall.

"Uh, actually. Probably, yeah. Yeah I think I remember Tommy mentioning that Peekaboo won a couple shows? He might have been preparing for another show, I—it's not like we talked a lot but that was just so weird that a man in his nineties would enter a dog show. It kind of stood out, right?"

Lisbon makes an appreciative sound on the other end. "Thank you, Skye, that's actually a great help. Was there anything else?" She sounds like a patient mother, now. Calm and collected. Makes you feel like you actually helped. You're not convinced you did.

"Well, there's, I don't really know how to—"

Your conversation is cut short; the phone is plucked from your hands and your heart just about leaps out of your rib cage.

"Lisbon! I'll be busy today. Take Grace with you, I'm sure she'll appreciate it." Snaps the phone shut.

Oh Jesus. You absolutely feel like a wounded gazelle under his stare. His face only seems impassive on the surface; even you can recognize the clenching of the jaw and the deliberate set of the brows. You back up against the fridge.

"I couldn't find my phone I didn't go through your stuff I swear I just, I remembered something and I figured you'd have someone's. What... what are you doing?"

Confused, you watch Mr Jane grab and throw his jacket over his shoulder. Pulls out a pair of aviators from god knows where. He grabs your messenger bag and throws it at you. You only barely manage to catch it.

"You're phone's in the side pocket."

"Where are we going, though? I mean I'm not exactly dressed for anything?"

Turns around. You don't like that toothy grin in the slightest.

" _You_ are going to be putting your newfound knowledge to good use."

* * *

Questions bubble up and out of you like water in the parking lot. You hadn't given much thought as to what kind of car you would be traveling in. You'd assumed something like the CBI SUV agent Van Pelt drove yesterday.

"Is that an actual Citroen? What year is it? My parents called this a fish tank but it looks kind of nice? Whose soul did you sell to be able to afford gas for this thing? Does it still have the original engine block? What about the paint job?"

Jane makes an attempt to answer as many of your questions as he can. Eventually, he stops trying, simply lets you go on until you stop yourself, realize you've been rambling and shut up. There's nothing malicious about any of it. It's almost indulgent.

The car itself is actually more comfortable than it looks, which is honestly saying a lot. You settle into comfortably and completely forego asking where you're going. You probably wouldn't get a straight answer anyways. You do, however, have a few more unrelated questions.

"When did I fall asleep?"

Mr Jane seems to mull this over a bit, tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. "Around two this morning, I think," he answers easily, keeping his eyes on the road. There's an expression you can't quite read on his face. "You don't remember?"

You shake your head. "No, I just..." You trail off, frowning and trying to remember something. Anything. "I remember your asking what I know about cold reading, tells and non-verbal shit but like. Not really... anything after that?"

He lets a beat pass. You have two simultaneous realizations in those few seconds.

"Wait, you. Did you _hypnotize_ me?" You make sure to make your disbelief clear. Jane looks at you for a second. Again with that self satisfaction. "Why?"

"To see how prone you are to suggestion," he explains. The tone in his voices make you feel like this is a conclusion you should have drawn naturally, by yourself. How the hell.

"And?"

"Not very, stunningly."

You want to be offended. But the answer surprises you, too. You would have thought that your willingness to believe in hypnosis and suggestion would make you especially susceptible to it. You're almost relieved to hear that isn't the case. You sink back in your seat, look off to the east. Dark clouds rolling in on the horizon. It's a little eerie.

"If I ask, will you tell me where we're going?"

You aren't sure if that was a chuckle or a scoff. "Probably not."

* * *

For two hours, you're mostly left to yourself and your phone. When you first check it you've got about 20 missed calls and just as many text messages. Some from concerned friend, most from the bookstore owner. For the first half hour, that's all you do. Reply to messages and make calls. Everyone seems distraught that you stumbled upon a corpse, and the store owner insists you take a week off, maybe two. Whatever time you need, she says she'll pay you for half of it. _Least I could do_ , she says.

You're most of the way to sleeping when Mr Jane pulls over at a diner. A little non-descript place off the interstate, looks family owned. You aren't given an explanation.

"Please tell me this is a food stop," you ask. Complain, actually; you won't lie. You're starving. You can't remember the last time you ate anything substantial.

"I don't know about you but I'm craving a good burger," Jane replies, and again you feel like you aren't actually being told anything. Or getting answers.

You're seated at a comfortable booth by a plucky waitress. She talks too much. Thankfully, Jane takes care of most of the small talk. You nod when appropriate, but otherwise keep quiet. He orders for you. You'd be offended if he hadn't actually asked for scrambled eggs and bacon with a cup of coffee for you. Coffee sounds like just the thing you need right now.

When the waitress comes back some time later with both food and coffee (bless her and the cook they are _saints_ ), Mr Jane pipes up, rests a hand on the woman's arm. You can't help but frown; that's a trick, right? Something nags at your memory, but you can't quite wrap your mind around it just yet.

"Have you heard about a murdered dog owner, out here?"

Your jaw drops. That... you did not expect that.

But the waitress suddenly has a gleam in her eye. A true gossip. Figures; small communities have fast-traveling news. You, however, can't connect the dots to Tommy, his missing dog and this waitress in the middle of relatively nowhere on the way to who knows where.

"Oh my—yes, I did! Poor old man," she puts a hand over her heart and looks genuinely crestfallen. "Johnny or Tommy or something, right? He'd stop by here every couple months with this cutest little dog! Black and white, a uh, what's it called again."

"Havanese, right?" Jane has eyes only for the waitress. You can't say she _doesn't_ notice. She looks flattered by the attention.

"Yeah, that's it! Havanese! Cutest little thing, like I said. We're a nice spot for those dog show people when they come down. We're one of the only dog-friendly diners around here, yeah? So a lot of people will stop by on their way to Paso Robles." The waitress seems blissfully oblivious to the handful of patrons shooting her either interested or displeased looks.

Jane leans in. You begin to wonder what it is about people and pretending they have a secret. Jesus.

"I heard," he starts, hushed tone, looks around as if to make sure no one else is paying attention. Everyone is. You sure are. "That it was that one crazy killer. The one that started in Fresno?"

The waitress gasps, mostly shocked and entirely captivated. "No way!" She startles herself, looks around, lowers her tone. "You're _kidding_ , right? Why would anyone kill a poor old man over a dog?"

Mr Jane shrugs and begins nursing what you assume, by now, is a mug of tea. The waitress—her name is Mindy, you think, but the nametag is awfully faded—turns to you with a shocked expression. You can't think of anything else to do but shrug as well.

"She's the one who found the body," Jane whispers, and you can feel you chest and neck turn red.

"Oh. Oh my god. _Oh my god_ ," Waitress Mindy brings both hands to her mouth and completely forgets about the pad and pen she was holding. They clatter to the floor, but no one seems to notice or care. "Oh sweetie, I can't let you pay. that's _terrible_. It's on the house, don't worry about it."

And then she disappears through the doors to the kitchen.

You glare at Mr Jane.

"That was completely and wholly un—"

"It wasn't _completely_ unnecessary," he cuts you off, that toothy, wolfish grin on his face again. You're torn between finding it charming and annoying. Maybe limited exposure makes it more endearing. "Now we know who killed Old Man Tommy."

You pause and frown. You also wonder how fast you'll develop wrinkles with how much you've frowned in the past two days.

"Wait so. There's a serial killer in California, from Fresno, who, what? Kills people with prize dogs? That makes no sense?" You're almost too incredulous to touch your eggs. Almost. You try not to think about what happens to the dogs. Shove some bacon down your throat and pretend it was never an animal.

Jane patiently sits in front of you, sipping his tea and occasionally having a bit of eggs on toast. Alright, so he's trying to let you figure this out for yourself. You have no idea why, but alright. What the heck? Some brain work will keep you distracted enough to forget a corpse in rigor mortis.

"Kills the owner, goes after a show dog. Probably doesn't kill the dog; I mean, if you go through the trouble of eli...eliminating competition?" You get a raised brow in response. Okay, close, but a little off track. "Well the dogs aren't getting kidnapped to be used in shows. Judges would notice that the same dog is showing up under a different owner and trainer. Right? Unless..." You trail off, biting down on your fork.

"Unless what?," Jane prompts, leans back in his seat and throws his arm over the back.

"Okay but saying that the judges or the registration staff are in on it is some conspiracy theory BS though, right?" You pause. No reply. Passive face, not even a raised brow. You deflate. "Oh come on, that can't be right."

"You tell me, Fortune Teller. What do the cards say?"

You hate the condescending tone, but take out your deck of cards regardless. You're not liking the feeling of being a pet project, but even you can't deny that this is the most excitement you've had in years.


	5. Chartreuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Was out of down Saturday and bedridden Sunday, so despite feeling like pretty awful shit today, figured it was now or never!

You lean back in your seat, contemplate the cards. Don't take as much time as you did last night. This feels pretty straightforward. You place you hands, palm down, onto the table. Take a deep breath. Somehow, you don't feel as much pressure. Maybe the ambiance helps.

"A man who was mocked when he was a kid," you begin. You keep your eyes down on the cards. "He was never given the support he needed or wanted. He had the option of looking for a person or people who share his ideologies, but he never did. He slipped into resentment and obsession but..."

Jane leans in closer, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him. "But what?"

"It just looks like it was all an accident? Out of, I don't know. Passion?" You look up at Mr Jane and scoot forward in your seat. "Did the first murder look planned or kind of sloppy? My guess is sloppy," you say, drumming your fingers against the white vinyl table. "Didn't look like he wanted to kill anyone, right?"

"It looked improvised, yes," Jane replies. His grin lights up pride in your chest like a bonfire. "Grabbed a dog show trophy and killed the competition."

The flush of pride is quickly replaced with fatigue. You wave down Waitress Mindy for an extra strong cup of coffee before you hit the road again. You still have a ways to go, according to the Generous Waitress. You'd like to stay awake for it. Probably. You'll see.

"There's something I'm curious about, though," you say quietly. Take your hands back, place them in your lap. Do your best to maintain eye contact. Somehow it's harder than it usually is. Jane lifts his chin a little, inviting you to continue. "Why are you humouring me so much? What's your angle? I'm not stupid. I know your disdain for any kind of metaphysical profession."

He points at you. Looks victorious? "Ah, but see, you're not a professional." The remark stings but, well. He isn't exactly wrong. His face takes on a more serious air. "You don't take advantage of other people's willingness and weakness for your own gain." _Or get anyone killed_ , is what you figure he wants to say after that. But doesn't. You understand nonetheless.

"It's not like I wouldn't take money if it was offered," you retort, sip at your coffee. Not scalding, but just barely. It wakes you a little, at least.

"Either way, it's not like you have special powers."

You bristle at that. Jane flags down Waitress Mindy. It isn't like you ever thought about it that much. But having someone outright say that there's nothing special about you or what you do... somehow doesn't sit quite right.

You almost manage a reply (that's possibly a little too scathing) when his phone rings. You don't pay attention, instead work on putting your cards away neatly in your bag. It doesn't take long, and Mr Jane wraps up his phone call just after you close your messenger bag.

Down the rest of your coffee as fast as you can. The diner's starting to feel a little stifling. Dig out your wallet from a side pocket in your bag, pull out a few tens. Wave down Mindy again and tell her to keep the change, insist on paying for the coffee, at least. She's practically glowing. Probably doesn't get tipped a lot. She needs to get a job around nicer people.

"We're ready to go, yeah?" Jane looks at you in _that way_ again. Makes you feel like a bug pinned to a board. Agree, and you return to a temporary Life On The Road.

* * *

You spent most of the remaining two hours in silence. Lean the seat back a little, pop in some earbuds. Tune out the rest of the world for a little bit. Unlike your father, at least Mr Jane has the decency not to interrupt you every five minutes. You try not to think about Tommy too much. Distract yourself with fanciful things.

Like trying to figure out how the hell someone becomes a serial killer over show dogs.

After about an hour and a half of quiet riding, pull your earbuds out, unplug them from your phone. Stow it away, turn towards Jane.

"How long has this guy been going around killing show dog owners?"

Barely gives any indication that he hear you. But you see the right corner of his mouth tip up. Alright, well, at least you've got his attention.

"Three years, looks like."

Look back ahead to the road. The first murder looked sloppy, poorly planned. The killer's gotten used to it in the past three years. Shew at your bottom lip. You feel like a five year old in a classroom, but the curiosity gnaws at you.

"How many murders are confirmed to be this guy's work?"

"Eight now, including old Thomas there."

Hum, and think. "Was the first murder just before or after a dog show?"

Jane smiles. Something about it makes you feel oddly proud again.

"A few days after the show we're going to see today," Jane says simply. His tone if so light you might not have thought about it twice if you hadn't been paying attention.

"Wait, where are we going? You never actually told me."

"We're going to pay a visit to the San Luis Obispo Kennel Club. They have a nice event this weekend. Lots of small dogs, so I hear."

"That's just vague enough to shut me up and keep me satisfied," you mutter. Look out the window at your shoulder.

Okay, so, you're going to see the kennel club that Tommy was probably going to. Probably going to see either the murderer or the people who are enabling him. (Or her? You're not entirely sure, but someone with enough strength to cave in a person's skull...) That's actually a deceptively simple plan, provided that all Jane's assumptions are correct.

You're not sure you'd be able to debate whether or not they are, in fact, correct.

Once you actually are in Paso Robles, it doesn't take long to get to the center. There's a fairly decent crowd; it unnerves you about as much as the stuffy diner. There's at least a hundred people milling outside. Most of them either carrying or leading a dog. You don't want to think about the amount of people inside.

"I have a stupid idea." You don't completely close the passenger door to the Citroen. Look to Jane for permission.

"Do tell." Shut the driver door. Leans against the side. "I love crazy ideas."

You look around. Now that you look, there are a lot more people just carrying their dogs in their arms than otherwise. They're good odds, considering how tiny the dogs are.

Take a deep breath, cup your hands around your mouth, and bellow as loudly as you can.

"Peekaboo!"

Mr Jane looks stunned. You can feel your face burning, but your try calling out for the dog one more time. Turn back to him a little sheepish.

"I really thought it would—"

A dog barks rather angrily, someone calls for it somewhere in the crowd. You aren't too preoccupied by the man screaming as you are by the small black and white Havanese rushing at your legs. Jane is more than happy to intercept the man chasing after the dog. You had no idea seeing Peekaboo again would make you feel...

"That's my dog! What's she doing with my dog?"

"Sir, if you could just..."

You scratch Peekaboo behind the ears. Flop of down on her side. Push the fur around a little bit.

"Mister Jane?" You point down at the heart-shaped scar near her right hind leg. "This is her. I remember when she got this scar, no one in the neighborhood slept for days while she was at the vet."


	6. Freesia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! This chapter's barely longer than the last one, but if you're willing to put up for it for just this week, I promise something at least twice as long next week. I'm going somewhere with this, I promise!

As soon as you mention Peekaboo's scar, there's a gun. Jane takes several steps back. You scramble for the poor dog. She squirms and claws at your arms. Someone shrieks. You're not sure if you're aggravated or relieved that the crowd disperses.

"Give me my dog back." Gun waves around. Jesus christ what have you gotten yourself into.

"She's not your dog though..?" Hold Peekaboo a little closer. Thankfully she's stopped moving. Gives your arms a break.

"Craig, please, put the gun down," Mr Jane says from somewhere behind you. Not too sure what to think about his leaving you out in the open, either.

"No! No, I just want my dog back," Dog Show Serial Killer Craig demands. You can only shake your head. Staring down the barrel of a pistol isn't doing wonders for your backbone.

Pulls the hammer back on the pistol. Wonder for a second who the hell still walks around with a six shooter, but take a step back.

"Woah! Hey, you shoot at me you're gonna shoot the dog!" Pull Peekaboo higher against your chest. Feels a little wrong to use a dog for your own safety, but whatever works, right? "You haven't killed any of the dogs yet, right? Why start now?" Trying not to sound too desperate. Probably failing horribly.

The gunshot causes more shrieking. You can't make most of it out from the ringing in your ears. Peekaboo promptly _flips her shit_ , makes it nearly too hard to hold onto. Yelps when you squeeze. Well, maybe if she didn't wiggle like a god damn snake this wouldn't be a problem.

"Okay! Okay, please, just calm down!" Plead, crouch to the ground. The dog seems to be getting ideas. Give her a quick squeeze to calm her down. "Look, I'm not judging you, Craig. I don't understand but I can respect your decisions, alright? I'm not making fun of you." Sit down, cross your legs, curl yourself up around Peekaboo as much as you can.

Still feels like a dick move to turn the dog into the more prominent target but whatever keeps you alive long enough for _whoever to save your ass_.

"Just, Tommy's niece, right? You've seen her around probably. The black girl in the wheelchair? She's been seeing Peek for months since she can't get a dog herself. She's like a therapy dog to her, y'know?" Scratch Peekaboo under the chin, on the top of the head. Vaguely register the gun lowering.

You have no idea why blatant lie about a girl needing a dog for therapy is working but you're going with it.

"She's not his niece," but Serial Killer Craig doesn't sound convinced by what he's saying.

You're halfway through going through a half assed explanation about how Tommy's first wife had an adopted step brother who had a kid about twenty years ago when Agent Lisbon (magically) appears around the corner of a nearby car.

Shouts at Craig to drop the gun. Serial Killer Craig looks at her, mutters something. Turns back to you.

Oh fuck.

 _Shit_.

You roll off to your right as he pulls the trigger. One gunshot is followed by a second, third. A fourth. The bullet grazed your left thigh and it _burns_. Don't let go of the dog. Turn to lie on your back, hold her against your chest and try to remember to breathe.

You aren't doing too well with the breathing. Someone off to your right declares Dog Show Killer Craig to be dead. You can't find it in yourself to be relieved. Your ears are still ringing.

 _Everything sucks_.

Someone tries to pry Peekaboo from your arms. Screw your eyes shut, refuse to let go. Jane, to your left, quietly reassures you. Slowly uncurl your fingers from fur. Let go.

"Can you stand?"

Grit your teeth together, try to get yourself standing on one leg. Arms too stiff to hold your weight. Every limb shakes. You're carefully and slowly helped to your feet. Guided to the back of an ambulance. You expect to have the graze treated and be sent on your way, though you're informed you're being taken to the hospital anyways. You don't have it in you to protest.

Jane hops into the back just before you leave. Sits down, doesn't say a word. You grit your teeth in pain the rest of the way.

* * *

 

The hospital is wholly unnecessary and this is what you insist on saying every time someone asks you how you're feeling. You don't check yourself out.

Mr Jane vigilantly remains at your bedside, flips through a notebook. Doesn't look or speak to you for over an hour after you get a room. You're fine with that. You've been given pain killers, some kind of antianxiolytic. Besides the mild throbbing pain in your thigh, feeling pretty good about yourself.

Until you remember Serial Killer Craig's very dead face.

You try not to think about it.

Make an attempt at a nap. Wake up around two hours later, don't feel any better. A nurse pops in to check if you're awake.

"Sorry, the man that was here? Did he leave?"

The nurse smiles (politely). "Mister Jane left just about an hour ago. He left a note for you," unclips a note from the clipboard in her arm. "Said to call him when you felt up to it. How are you feeling?"

Better. Terrified, but better, is the conclusion you arrive at. the doctor who originally treated your wound comes by, runs through the process of after care with you, before eventually discharging you. But only after you _very heavily insist_.

Now that Dog Show Killer Craig is pretty much out of the picture, you see no problem going back to your apartment. Going to work in the morning... may be problematic. If you can spend the day behind the counter sitting down you figure you'll be fine.

* * *

You store the gauze, ointment and waterproof bandages under your bathroom sink. Make yourself a pot of coffee. Getting back to Yuba took far too long. By the time you can finally sit down and relax, it's nearly midnight.

This was not how you had envisioned spending your day.

You slowly sip at your cup of coffee, contemplate the note Jane had left you. Just the barely legible words "yellow tape?" and a phone number which you assume is his. You have no idea what that's supposed to mean.

Dont turn on the TV. Or the radio. You assume that a serial killer being caught and gunned down at a dog show's gonna make the news. You don't want to hear what anyone has to say about it. You especially don't want to know whether or not your name or involvement will be mentioned. You're not sure if you want it to or not. Schrodinger's feelings.

You play with your barely-charged phone. Save Jane's number in your contacts. Don't hit 'call'. It's late. You should be sleeping. You've been warned you might have nightmares. Definitely not looking forward to that.

Crack open all the windows in your small apartment. Turn on the TV to some soap opera for background noise. Grab your laptop, open a new Word file, and start writing.

* * *

He stands alone on the CBI rooftop when his phone dings with a message. He wholly expects to find Rigsby's drunk-texted him again. Sees a number he doesn't recognize, but knows the general locale of.

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> **FROM** : _530-555-2758_  
>  **SUBJECT** : _(none)_
> 
> **03:14 AM**
> 
> _It's Skye. Not sure where to start. Yellow tape? What's that supposed to mean? Please reply when convenient._
> 
>   
>  _(Also thank you for leaving your number I appreciate it)_

Quickly types out a reply. Silently blesses the technology gods for the T9 function. (How would he ever be able to efficiently and quickly type otherwise?) Flips his phone closed, drums his fingers along the side for a bit. Heads back inside when he doesn't get a reply within five minutes. Assumes you sent the message in bed, halfway asleep. Probably feel embarrassed to message a complete stranger at three in the morning, and scared he might blow you off because of the time.

Smirks. Goes back inside to his desk and his cup of tea. Stares at the strip of yellow duct tape he stuck to the window.


	7. Sulphur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! WARNING !!!
> 
> There is mention of rape in this chapter. Nothing explicit is written.

You wake up too early. Grab your phone, heart jumps in your throat. There's a message from Patrick Jane. Almost forget to check the time. No one who got shot should be up at seven in the morning. Resign yourself to your fate; probably wouldn't be able to go back to sleep if you wanted to.

Getting up and opening the curtains is a harder task than it has any right to be. Your left thigh smarts something awful. Your arms are still covered in red and purpling marks. Peekaboo's claws, though pretty blunt, still packed a small punch.

  
Showering this morning means wiping yourself down with a soapy rag and washing your hair in the sink. Despite everything, you don't actually look like _too much_ shit. Wash your face. Pick some baggy sweatpants and an old band shirt.

  
Look at the time on the microwave. Almost eight. Time for coffee, then.

  
You make a point to avoid your phone.

  
You sink into your couch with a mug of coffee. (Black, two spoonfuls of sugar.) Pull your laptop back into your lap, turn the TV on for background noise. Some morning show or whatever.

  
You spend the better part of your morning googling the CBI agents you saw yesterday for lack of anything better to do.

* * *

  
Jane's enjoying a cup of tea on his Couch when his phone rings in his pocket. Bemused, he answers without looking at the caller ID.

  
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Benraft?"

  
Lisbon looks at him like he's grown a second head. 'Skye?', she mouths. He nods patiently.

  
"Really? ...I see. No, nothing to worry about. I was just curious, you know how that goes." Weaves a coin through his fingers. "Well, I'm not at liberty to say right now. Have you tried reading your cards for it yet?"

  
Lisbon's expression is that of defeat. Throws her arms up and declares that she has better things to do than wait around for him to schedule a date. Or whatever the hell it is he's actually doing. She walks out with a huff.

  
Jane places his teacup and saucer on his desk and slowly gets up.

  
"Listen, I need you to do something for me. Can you go check your mail?"

 

* * *

  
You count your blessings when the elevator actually works. You would probably have cried if you had to walk down the stairs to the apartment lobby. Collect your mail when you get there, but don't look at it right there. As instructed. Limp back to the elevator, back to your apartment. Lock, chain and bolt it shut.

  
Your hands shake. This is ridiculous. You were asked to go get and check your mail for anything odd or out of place. Commonplace shit. No reason to get all up in arms about it. No reason for your pulse to be as fluttery as it is.

  
Jesus, you might be becoming an adrenaline junkie. Bad news.

  
Shake your head, go back to the couch. Most of the mail is spam. Adverts for local eateries, something about a chimney sweep. (Whose bright idea was it to leave a pamphlet for a chimney sweeper in an apartment complex?) A phone bill, a letter without a return address, a delivery slip from the nearest post office, and a letter from a friend in North Carolina.

  
Honestly, nothing much out of the ordinary there. More paper than you usually get on a Saturday (or is it Sunday? Does it matter?) but otherwise perfectly normal.  
Until you get to the letter with no return address. You discover it's sealed with yellow washi tape at the back. For some reason, it puts ice in your veins.

  
Your Millenial Instincts dictate that you should take pictures of the front and back and send them to Mr Jane. The message takes a while to send, but when it does you toss your phone on the couch to your right. What the hell. You throw the letter on the coffee table in front of you. Burry it under newspapers, flyers, opened and unopened mail. Do your best to forget about the nasty feeling it leaves you with.

  
Doesn't take five minute for your phone to vibrate with a message. Another five and you're dressed and clambering into a dusty blue Citroen.

 

* * *

  
You can't catch a break. Little less than two hours later and you're back at the CBI. Brought the strange letter with you, handed it off to Agent Lisbon. Hands it off to a lab tech to see if they can get prints off it.

  
You are very acutely aware that literally everyone is playing this down. Keep hearing that It's No Big Deal and It's Probably Nothing and Just A Prank. You believe exactly none of it. Mr Jane's countenance is enough to set you off. Everyone else's expressions are just confirmation.

  
Wow, they're all _really shitty liars_. Makes you feel a little better, maybe.

  
Agent Van Pelt takes you to one of the interrogation rooms. Reassures you, says it's just for some privacy. Not that you care, really. It's all whatever at this point.

  
"Jane mentioned he found yellow tape on the back of your shoulder yesterday. Do you remember anything about that?" Silently thank whatever deity for Van Pelt's soft spoken voice. Doesn't do much, but calms your nerves a little bit. Takes the edge off.

  
Play with your fingernails on the table. You frown at your hands. Try to remember. "I mean, not really? It might have been one of the EMTs, or maybe the nurse at the hospital. Those are the only people I can remember touching me at all. But that's..."

  
You trail off. Don't need to say it; Grace's expression tells you what you need to know. You clear your throat, scoot closer to the table to lean on it.

  
"Look, I know this isn't a super good situation I'm in, but no one's telling me shit about it. I'm assuming I'm like, a target or something? Right?"

  
Van Pelt frowns. Hit the nail on the head, then. You sigh. Your breathing is shakier than you'd like it to be.

  
"Why though? I mean, this is just. This is unreal!" You toss your hands out, leans back into the chair. "Just yesterday I was /shot at/ because I happened to recognize a kidnapped dog, and now I'm being target by, like. By what? _Another_ serial killer?"

  
"We don't have any confirmed murders yet," Grace offers quietly. But that just seals it; you are effectively being targeted by another crazy person.

  
Cross your arms and run your hand through your hair. Not sure if you feel like screaming or just not breathing. You heart feels like it's thumping away in your throat. Wait, no, you definitely feel like crying.

  
"You're going to be fine, Skye," agent Van Pelt offers, extending her hand to you, palm on the table. "We'll find who's doing this and we'll keep you safe."

Scoff. "Yeah? What about the other people this creep's been after? What are they even doing?"

  
Silence. Great. Perfect. It's not murder, but it's something that no one seems to be comfortable saying out loud. Just great. Lean forward, elbows on the table and face in your hands.

  
You hear the door open, blinds rattling. Agent Van Pelt puts a warm hand on your shoulder before getting up and leaving. Someone else takes her place. Take a deep breath and look up. A mug of steaming tea in placed in front of you.

  
You don't stop yourself from crying.

  
"You're wondering why you." It's not a question, but Jane lets you nod before continuing. Gallant. He takes a moment before answering. You stared through the mug. "Most likely to taunt the CBI," he shrugs a shoulder.

  
You want so badly to be angry at his nonchalance. Just don't have it in you. Take a sip of the tea. It's nearly scalding, but drinkable. Chamomile; figures. What a jerk.

"What..." Deep breath. Compose yourself to try and avoid sobbing. "What exactly has this person been doing?"

  
Again, thick discomfort. Not so much in Mr Jane's expression as it just hangs in how tense you both are. You expect the answer when he says it.

  
"Kidnapper and rapist." Choke on a... something. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. His voice is quiet when he continues. "She keeps them in a remote location. We found one of her escaped victims a few weeks ago. By the time we went to investigate she'd already emptied the place and moved on. The victim had signs of being tortured."

  
"Oh my god." You repeat yourself. Again. And again. Your hands shake horribly. Tea spills onto your fingers. Breath quickens. You know this is a panic attack; you know your thoughts are spiralling and repeating themselves but.

  
But the release of it feels like something you need.

  
You promptly lose consciousness to Jane trying to calm you down.

  


* * *

You're on a beach.

  
You have no memory of getting there. And you honestly have no idea which beach it is. You don't remember ever seeing something like it. The shore runs for miles on either side of you. Cliffs behind you. A small cabin on the edge, just behind you. Steps carved into the stone of the cliffside.

  
Your feet dig into the sand as you make your way to the first stone step. The ascension is steep and tedious. You're winded by the time you make it to the top. The view is... Strange. You can see the curvature of the earth, but it's too pronounced.

  
Take out the phone in your back pocket. Check the time. 11:28AM. Look at the horizon. Back at the time. It's completely illegible.

  
Alright. You're dreaming. Good to know.

  
The cabin is entirely made of logs and looks nearly perfectly square. The front door has a small circular window in it. A small lantern with a lit flame hangs up to the right. It casts a strange gleam on the brass doorknob.

  
Take a deep breath. _This is just a dream_.

  
Probably.

  
Knock three times. No answer. Knock again and call out. No answer. Find the door unlock when you turn the knob. Open the door as you normally would.

  
Thirteen women stare at you, eyes white and mouths agape. Let go of the doorknob, spin on your heels to run.

  
A woman stands directly in front of you. A yellow bandana covers most of her face. All you can see are her near-black eyes. She grabs you by the shoulders. Fingers dig into the flesh of your biceps.

  
You can't scream.

  


* * *

You wake up digging your heels into a mattress and shoving yourself backwards. Straight off a table and into someone's chest. Scream and try to fight arms away, end up landing (painfully) on the floor.

  
The arms won't leave. Feels like there are too many hands grabbing at your. _Too many to fight off and there's just_ —

  
Ice cold water in your face. Down your neck, your back, covering your scalp. Gasp for air, sit up, try and wipe the water off your face. Comb through your hair to get it out of your face. Finally take in your surroundings.

  
"I-I'm sorry I didn't know what else to do." Mr Jane take a knee next to you. Hovers uncertainly, arms out to help without knowing how.

  
"It's fine, Jesus, I'm sorry, did I hurt you? Oh. Fuck, shit." Reach a hand to his left cheek. Red, already swelling a little. "Oh god I'm so sorry, you need ice on that--"

  
Motion to get up, but a hand on your shoulder keeps you sitting on the wooden floor. Jane stares at you intently. Alright, then; uncertainty out the window, it seems.

  
"I'm fine, Skye. Are you okay?" The genuine concern confuses you. Frown, but nod.

  
"I mean my lungs feel like they're about to fuckin'. Combust. But wait nevermind I dreamt about something doyouhavepaperandapencil?"

  
The words spill out of your mouth all at once and you trip over yourself at least twice. A paper and pen are provided to you.

  
Unfocus your eyes, hunch over the paper and start sketching. The cabin, the cliffside, the steps. The sandy shore. And, as best you can, try to draw the woman's eyes. The small knick in her left brow. The crows' feet. The bandana. Scrawl the numbers 1128 somewhere in a corner.

  
Mr Jane stays quiet the entire time. You can almost _feel_ him frowning at you. Straighten your back when you're done. After a second, add an arrow pointing to the bandana and quickly write 'yellow'.

  
Mr Jane stands so quickly it nearly makes you jump out of your skin.

  
"That's what you dreamt of?" Points at the face; what little you could draw of it.

  
"Yeah, it was. There was a cabin and I walked in and there were so many women? There weren't dead but they kind of. They felt dead? And when I turned around and this is who was there are she grabbed my upper arms—"

  
You grab a spot high on your bicep and wince. Freeze for a moment, pull your collar down to see. You don't need to see the four other bruises to know they're also there.

  
There's a neat, thumb-sized bruise just near the inside of your arm.

  


* * *

You stay upstairs with Jane for a while. Gets you a bottle of water rather than tea. You appreciate it; the cold water is much more satisfying. Lets you calm your nerves before going down to see Lisbon with your rough sketch.

  
It's not spoken but it's understood between the lot of you. On the spot, dreaming of a wanted criminal is strange. Extremely out of the ordinary. But once you start thinking about it as you slowly walk down the stairs to the main office space for the CBI, you can see the logic and reason behind it.

  
You met the woman yesterday. That much is certain. And she most likely directly mailed the letter to you as well. (Which, unfortunately, didn't seem to have any trace of a print or DNA whatsoever.) Maybe your subconscious mind figured out which EMT or nurse it was. If they had a face mask on you /would/ only remember the eyes. Might have even recognized her as a threat without consciously registering it.

  
Which would then explain why you dreamt of her.

  
Still, it's uncanny how you dreamt of the exact amount of women who were taken. Try not to think too hard about that.

  
Sit down at the far left end of the old leather couch. Nurse your water bottle slowly. Try not to pay too much attention to what agent Lisbon is talking about, or the odd glances you get from agents Rigsby and Cho.

  
Toe off your shoes and pull your feet up on the couch. Hug your knees. When you moved out to Cali this is not the life you thought you'd signed up for. Sigh and play with  
the bottle cap.

  
Mr Jane sits net to you, blue teacup and saucer in hand.

  
"Did you ever visit that log cabin?" Doesn't look at you when he asks.

  
Shake your head. "I've only ever been to public beaches." You look at Jane's wrist for the time. Nearly 4PM. How long were you out?

  
Jane hums. You can almost see where this is going.

  
"Lisbon!" Puts his cup on his desk. "Call me if you need us." Extends his hand to you.

  
You pray you won't spend hours on the road again, but take it regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long it took to get this to you. It's been a rough couple of months IRL, so I haven't really been writing at all. I'm hoping to be able to start posting regularly on Saturdays again.


	8. Dandelion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than I'm used to, but I'm hoping next week's will be much longer. And more exciting!

As soon as you're out of the building, you feel the need to ask. Instead, restrain yourself. Word it differently.

  
"It feels like you're starting to believe me." Clutch the strap of your bag to your chest. Mr Jane's mouth twitches in a way you don't recognize. You can't tell what it means.

  
"There's still no such things as psychic," he replied evenly. Looks sideways at you, considers you for a moment. Opens the passenger door of the car for you. "Doesn't mean I have the answers to everything. Probably." You scoff and drop yourself into a passenger seat that is becoming far too familiar.

  
You still have no idea where you're going. It's a struggle, initially, not to ask. Once you get to talking about the music on the radio, you're fine. You have something to talk about, take your mind of things. Talk about the musical arrangement, your favourite score composers, instruments. Remember that one time, the first time, you went to see a symphonic orchestra, and how you cried like a child. You were twelve, okay, yes, but still.

  
You're nervously rambling and you know it. Jane doesn't point it out. Indulges you with a few hums and questions here in there. For the better part of the car ride, however, you try to nap. Once you've exhausted yourself in conversation, you realize you've had... not much sleep. Eyes feel dry, throat feels sore and legs feel stiff.

  
Thankfully, you don't dream.

* * *

  
Somehow, you manage to wake up a few minutes before you arrive. Wherever it is you're being taken to. Glance at the dashboard clock; nearly four hours have passed. Vaguely remember Mr Jane driving northbound. Most likely far past Yuba by now. You feel a small sense of disappointment. You honestly thought there was a chance you might be going home.

  
You get the very distinct feeling that where you're going it nowhere near as pleasant.

  
"Welcome back among the living," is what Mr Jane greets you with when you sit up straighter. You stifle a yawn; look out the window, and glare. Rain. Perfect. The sky had seemed clear when you left. Four hours is a lot of time for weather, apparently.

  
"Should I even bother to ask where we are?," you ask, tired, rubbing your eyes. Not sure if they feel any less dry than before.

  
"No point in it," comes a pleasant, chipper reply. It almost rubs you the wrong way.

  
A quick look around reveals that you're driving along a coastal highway. The 1, if you had to guess. Mr Jane seems resolutely staring off to the left. Not sure if he's looking for a house or out as sea.

  
"Fun fact, this little corner of Mendocino," he starts, and you sit straighter. At least now you have a name. "Is referred to as Slaughterhouse Gulch. Just makes you want to take a vacation here, doesn't it?"

  
A shiver runs down the back of your neck. "Oh, yeah, absolutely. Want to raise a family here," you deadpan. What kind of genius names a place Slaughterhouse Gulch?

  
Mr Jane almost snickers at your disdain. You huff, pull out your phone, and begin to google. There are a ton of useless links to maps of the area. A few to places completely out of state. (Of note is the Slaughterhouse Gulch haunted house, which you promptly frown at. Not what you're looking for.)

  
The rule of thumb is that if it isn't on the first page, try searching something else. You click on to the next page anyways. More maps. Nothing useful. Only on the fourth page do you find a link to an article written in the early 2000s.

  
There isn't much detail, but there's enough to make you uncomfortable. The Gulch was the hunting ground for a presumed serial killer. Women went missing every few months over the course of four or five years. The latest missing person reported dates back to 2003. For two years investigators followed less than solid leads, until the trail eventually went cold. Nothing to find, nothing to do.

  
"Anything interesting?" You just about jump out of your skin. Jane actually chuckles nervously before apologizing. "Geez, someone's a little jumpy."

  
"I was shot yesterday."

  
Mr Jane seems to consider his words. "So?" You blink at him. "What did you find?" He keeps his eyes on the road. Looks to be ready to take an off ramp. Marvelous.

  
Shake your head, flips your phone around in your hands. "There's not much _to_ find," you answer after a while. You determinedly keep your gaze on your feet. "Something about a serial killer that no one ever caught. Has a weird MO, only goes for women, used to take them from the Gulch until 2003, then nothing."

  
The silence coming form the driver's seat leads you to believe you should continue.

  
"Then there's... whoever's been taking people around the south?" Bite the inside of your cheek, when something strikes you. You frown. "Wait. Doesn't she seem to stick to the shore?"

  
"Not a bad guess," is Mr Jane's reply. A small bit of pride swells in your chest. Make quick work of rationalizing it away and ignoring it. "Why do you think?"

  
It takes a little bit for you to come up with an answer. By the time your thoughts are sorted, Mr Jane is weaving through narrow roads, slowly approaching the shore and its properties.

  
"I'm not sure. The bodies of the women that disappeared before 2003 were never found, right?" You get a short nod. "Maybe to drop them in the ocean..?" You trail off, resume biting the inside of your cheek.

  
You honestly feel like a clueless child trying to impress a grandparent. There can't be any way any of what your saying hits anywhere close to the mark. You have no background in criminology (high school classes in civil rights and law don't count, and you know it) and you have very little experience in criminal psychology, let alone profiling.

  
You have no idea why a consulting mentalist is asking you anything.

  
"I know that look," Jane says. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are still glued to the road. "You're smarter than you think. Miss Benraft. So tell me, why do you doubt that the bodies were dropped in the water?"

  
That he could sense your unease with your own statement is troubling, but that, too, you ignore. "Unless they were, uh. Disposed? Further from the shore? The current would just beach their bodies, right? So someone would have found something by now."

  
Again. Ignore the pride from the smirk you get. You look down at your phone's dark screen.

  
"I'm missing something super obvious right now, aren't I."

  
It's not a question. "The most obvious thing," Mr Jane answers anyway.

  
You sigh, close your eyes, hang your head. Your mind is too far into crevices, you know. You wouldn't be able to look at the bigger picture here if it hit you in the face with a truck.

 

When the car slows, and Mr Jane shifts down, you look up and out. The sight of a pale yellow house makes your stomach turn. Taste bile in the back of your throat. You do your best imitation of someone who isn't terrified.

  
"This isn't the cabin I saw, though."

  
Jane sighs, almost wistfully. "Dreams are a projection of the subconscious mind, Miss Benraft. What you saw was what you think is a comfortable, warm home. This," he waves at the custard coloured house. "Is probably someone's idea of comfort. God knows it isn't mine, either. But what can you do." Punctuates the end of his sentence by parking the car. You grab his shoulder before he can get out.

  
"Wait! Wait. What is this place? I dont—who lives here? Are we allowed to go in?" You get a wolfish grin as a reply before Mr Jane pulls himself away from you and out of the car.

  
You make a cursory attempt at steadying your breathing before climbing out. Wasn't very successful. Rake your nails against the strap of your bag. Walking up the small stone pathway to the door makes your heart thump increasingly hard against your ribcage. It may not look like the cabin in your dreams, but the visceral feeling of dread remains the same.

  
Mr Jane stops at the door, looks left and right (you don't like that at all) before kneeling in front of the door. You crowd him instantly, try your best to cover what he's doing.

  
"What the hell are you—what are you doing?!" Frantically look around you. The whole street seems deserted; no cars in any driveways, no one walking around. The anxiety doesn't leave you for a second regardless. "Are you actually allowed to do that? What the hell, are you a locksmith?"

  
A bark of laughter. Alright then, not a locksmith. "It's not illegal if we're not caught, right?," he offers you, standing up and turning to face you.

  
He is instantly five miles too close to you. Takes a second for you, long enough to think that Mr Jane probably hasn't shaved in a day or two, before you practically leap out of your skin. His chuckle isn't as carefree as it usually sounds. You don't bother to steady your breathing. Make a note to maybe go on a date soon. You probably need it.

  
The door opens soundlessly, signs of a property well maintained. A question pops up again.

  
"Wait, are we supposed to be here? Does anyone live here?" Look around; you notice the distinct lack of a "FOR SALE" sign on the lawn. Panic rises in your throat.

  
Mr Jane waltzes into the home without looking behind him. "Probably. Doesn't really matter; we're just going for a stroll on the beach." Through a house. That is owned. And lived in. You dither at the door before stepping through the threshold.

  
You can only manage an unintelligible groan before crumpling to the floor unconscious.


	9. Old Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone feel like being a beta/proofreader? I'm 9000% insecure about my work and I know I miss so many typos. Comment if you're interested, thank you!!

You are aware that you are dreaming. 

You are also aware that this is not just a dream.

Your level of awareness hangs between "vague" and "nebulous". Dangles somewhere between the stars and your hands. It takes a moment to understand what is happening to you. Your mind is going through images faster than you can understand them. One second, a body writhing in pain. The next, a crackling fire. Then, only the sound of something clattering in what you somehow know is a dumpster. The slideshow of sights and sounds is dizzying. You feel the distinct need to sit down.

Mr Jane's voice comes to you unintelligibly. You do your best to ignore it; not now. There's something here for you to understand. Focus harder, attempt to slow the images, sort through them, filter through them for something that makes sense.

The image of a log cabin comes to you. No, not a log cabin. A comfortable home, an awful shade of yellow. A cliff, carved steps down to a beach. Yes, okay, you know this. This you can understand. You found the home. Mr Jane found it. Whatever; what next? What is the next (il)logical step here?

The sound of a grocery cart rolls through your mind. Heavy, laden with... cans? Bottles? Both, probably, don't know. A homeless person? The smell of damp earth, the sea, and vivid eyes. The colour keeps shifting, Mr Jane's voice insists you get up. Not yet, you're so close to—

Unbidden, a distorted voice, Don't forget to keep that covered.

don't respond don't respond don't respond _wake up wake up **wake up**_

Screw your eyes shut like it's a nightmare. Nothing but a bad dream. Your head hurts, your thigh throbs and your lungs burn for air. Stay still, let the rest of the paralysis (was sleep paralysis supposed to happen after someone faints?) drain from your limbs. Gasp and breathe in greedily. Mr Jane holds your head up and speaks. You don't register a thing that he says. From where you are, half-sprawled at the front door, you can see the back. Can see the drop of the cliff. 

But, first. "It's the EMT, it's—you have to—Lisbon, you need to—"

"Woah, hey, calm down there! Try breathing for a bit, just relax." Mr Jane rubs circles on your back. You sputter, cough, still try to breathe like you're drowning until you slowly come back down. Calm yourself. Listen to his voice and try to pay attention to nothing else.

Anxiety still grip you, though. You grab at an expensive sleeve and plead. "Please call her. Call Agent Lisbon. Whoever's—the yellow, everything, it's the EMT who patched me up. They have to look into that."

Mr Jane looks at you intently again. You can tell he's looking for something. Whatever, it is, he doesn't find it before pulling out his (woefully outdated) phone. You don't keep track of the conversation. Instead, cross your legs on the floor, pull out your tarot deck, and get to work. There's something to be figured out here, and you somehow can't see what it is.

You can see Jane eyeing your process from a few feet away. He carefully approaches you, lifts a foot to kick to the front door closed behind you. 

Right. Yeah. If someone walked or drove by that would be awkward.

Shuffle the deck hurriedly and for possibly not nearly as long. You take a deep breath, exhale as slowly as you can manage. Close your eyes. Several ideas cross your mind but, ultimately, you decide to spread the whole deck out onto the worn hardwood floor. Slap your hands on your knees. Focus, Skye. Focus. Swallow past the lump in your throat before reaching for the first card.

You feel like you know what it is before you flip it. The cadaver impaled by ten swords is a clear image for you to understand. That's what happened. Great, excellent. Next, the Tower. An uncomfortable feeling crawls up your back. This is clearly a representation of your life at the moment; upside down, compeltely toppled over.

The next two cards come as a surprise, mostly because you had only reached for one. Justice and the Chariot stare at you determinedly. Justice tells you to make a decision, whether to pursue what is True and Right or if you should turn away and pretend nothing happened. Return to your life. Let the CBI and the Forces That Be take care of the rest.

You already know that your choice has been made. The Chariot tell you that there is no going back from it. You can only go forward from here.

You hesitate in drawing the last card. Vaguely, you retain the notion that Mr Jane has snapped his phone shut. He stands quietly off to your right but says nothing.

You frown. Drum your fingers against the wood floor. Reach your left hand out, but let it fall back down. Nothing calls to you. Nothing demands your attention. There should be one more card. There needs to be. How do you resolve this? What are you supposed to do? Swipe angrily at the cards in front you, startle Mr Jane in the process. You huff, look to your left to where the cards have scattered.

The Hanged Man stares at you with glossy eyes.

* * *

Gotye's voice laments his past relationships in your ears and you sigh. Determination dictates that this is a Perfectly Logical Course of Action. Rationality... has, in all likelihood, left you a few miles ago. Mr Jane has never looked more displeased. Your cards are neatly stacked in front of you. You still sit on the worn hardwood floor. Arms crossed, fingers drumming against your elbow.

The silence has stretched on too long. You initially turned to music to calm yourself down. Now... you pull the earbuds out as the last chorus ends and stand. Shove your cards back in your bag and sling it over your shoulder. 

"How likely is it that she's watching me?"

Jane's frown does not lessen. He gives you The Look again. You huff and walk to the sliding back door. Fine. Okay, whatever. You grab whatever courage you have left in both hands and brusquely shove the door open.

Or, you would have. An arm looms above you and keeps you from moving the glass door. Ignore the warmth at your back. Can already feel the muscles in your neck tense with apprehension. If you don't get out soon, you'll completely lose your resolve.

"Kindly remove your appendage from the sliding door, please," you ask through grit teeth. You don't look over your shoulder, stare instead at your feet. Looking at the edge of the cliff will do you no good now.

"This is reckless, Skye." Your spine feels electrified. It's stupid, reacting that way—you're not quite sure _what_ that way is—to someone saying your name. Tense your arms, try and push against the resistance on the door.

"I've taken a bullet for a dog and followed a complete stranger—" Try not to feel victorious at the sharp exhale. "—practically across the state, and _this_ is reckless?" You'd laugh if your lungs could expand enough. Breathing is becoming harder. You've lost your nerve and you know this is stupid. _All of this is completely stupid_ , but whatever other choice do you have?

The door opens far to quickly for you to keep your balance. You topple through the threshold, but Jane reminds inside the house. When you regain your footing and look back, he looks... furious. The calm kind of furious that makes children run for cover. Not quite what you were aiming for, but this'll do.

You've absolutely lost your nerve. But, well. There's no going back now. The Hanged Man's blank stare comes to the forefront of your mind. Shake away the image; not now. 

You take a deep breath, turn on your heels, and head for the steps you know are carved into the cliffside.

That, at least, you know is real. 

* * *

The phone rings three times before Lisbon picks up.

"What now, Jane?"

"She's going to use herself as bait," Jane blurts out, running a hand through his hair.

The agent stays quiet at the other end. He can practically hear herself slowly understanding.

"Wait... wait. Skye? She's using herself—wait. Jane, where the hell are you?" She knows. Well, this makes it easier.

"I drove her out to Slaughterhouse Gulch, Lis. I though—doesn't matter. You need to get over here. Bring, I don't know, Cho? Rigsby? Both. Bring both." He paces nervously at the back door, staring out at the cliffside until Skye's hair has disappeared under the edge. "Please, don't ask, just get here as soon as you can.

Lisbon's upset rebuttal is cut off when he snaps his phone shut. A minute head start should probably be enough. Right? Not too much? Probably enough.

Jane doesn't take his time following to the cliff's edge.

* * *

 

"Stay calm, breathe, focus. Stay calm, breathe, focus."

You chant to yourself repeatedly with every step. The makeshift stairwell is steeper than anticipated. Thank your stars that it isn't raining. Probably would've slipped and cracked your skull open the very first step you took. The wind pulls at your hair. You can taste the salt in the air. You pause several times during your descent. You don't know what, exactly, you'll find once you're at the bottom.

Part of you hopes for nothing.  
Part of you knows it'll be _something._  

It takes a solid minute to make it back to relatively firm, flat ground. It isn't just sand, not this far out. But there's not much grass, either. You stare anxiously at the ocean on the horizon. Never liked vast open spaces. The sight that greets you when you turn around does not ease the knot in your gut.

In the cliff's side, neatly nestled between bushes, is a small wooden door made out of driftwood. Doesn't have a handle, its hinges are mostly twine. It looks older than you thought. But it inspires nausea all the same. 

You stay rooted in place for a while. Fight or flight hasn't kicked in quite yet. You rely on that. You must still be somewhat safe. White-knuckle your bag's strap. Being to wonder if it really is too late to turn back. Breathe in as deeply as you can, and take one step forward.  Nearly jump out of your skin when gravel crumbled down the step. You are, in fact, too shocked to see Patrick Jane doing his best impression of a ninja to feel much of anything. Your heart beats violently against your chest. Not sure if the sound you hear is your thrumming blood or the ocean waves.

You don’t look at Mr Jane for more than a second. Turn tour attention back to the “door”, take a step closer. The more you look at it, the older it seems to be. Wood’s been bleached over the years. There’s a groove to be right where someone slipped their hand to pull it open. There’s traces of it haven’t being painted at some point in time, but only chips are left here and there. Green, blue, red, turquoise...

You reach out to touch it.

Feels like a cool breeze comes from behind the door. Barely ruffles your hair. You hear Mr Jane call out from somewhere to your right. The breeze feels like it gets stronger. Steals the air from your lungs as the door swings open toward you. And just like that, it's like everything around you in yellow.

Yellow parka, yellow bandana, yellow grass, yellow sun, yellow sand, yellow hair. It's overwhelming. It smells like salt and a smell you can only identify as "yellow".

Bright green eyes stare at you over a fraying yellow bandana. Blonde hair whips around, and you're violently pulled back. Your hand is still outstretched. Before you're out of reach, the stranger brushes just a finger against yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Sunday. I meant to post this yesterday. I'm so sorry for the huge gaps between updates; until recently, I was taking antidepressants, and it just killed any creativity I wanted to have. So I haven't been able to write. But now i have a job! And no more pain killers! I'm hoping I'll be able to start updating a little more regularly.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around, and for all the kudos!!


	10. Solar

The contact feels like an explosion of light behind your lids. Like you're two steps away from a migraine, when everything goes white. You feel no pain. There is no discomfort. Only confusion, and excitement in it.

You don't get much more before you're pulled back into someone's chest. You scramble to find your balance again. Your feet feel disconnected from your body. You head feels too heavy. Your hands feel almost numb. It still feels like the wind is trying to take your breath right out of your lungs. Do your best to cover your mouth. The piercing green eyes follow you the entire way, but the woman doesn't move. And you aren't quite certain why, with so little information, you know it's a woman.

"Skye."

The way she speaks your name sounds like the wind carries it. Soft, almost filled with static. Pulls the bandana down on her face. You see a tattoo on her neck, peeking out through the top of the fabric.

She only extends a hand out to you. Doesn't move, but doesn't say anything else. Doesn't seem to even hear Jane. Neither do you; whatever he's saying is buried by the sound of the wind, your thrumming heart and the sound of your name ringing in your ears. The spell breaks when you hear faint shouting behind the woman.

Mr Jane stops speaking. The woman freezes; there's a distinct change in her eyes. You notice now the crow's feet by her eyes and the deeps grooves of smile lines by her mouth. She doesn't turn around. You have a second to decide what to do. You can feel the adrenaline flushing through your system. You muscles tense. Though your body still feels nine kinds of too heavy, you begin to dig your feet into the sand-ground.

"Skye, don't," is what Jane whispers in your ear. The woman reaches for the beachwood door to pull it shut. You can hear clearly now. There is definitely a woman in there, somewhere, who does not want to be there.

The ground has too much give for you to properly dig your feet into it. You get no traction. Fight against the grip Jane has on you. His fingers dig into your upper arm, in your shoulder. Lose your footing and hand knees-first into the sand-covered ground. The door shuts against the stone with a deceptively quiet sound. Scrabble for purchase in front of you to try and run toward it.

"If I don't—someone has to  _ do  _ something, Jane! You can't, and I—"

"You what? Have the powers of the Great Beyond to help you, Skye?" Jane's tone is cold and calm. The quip barely bothers you. That isn't what's important.

"I don't care! We're here and someone needs help! What was the point of coming here if we don't  _ fucking do anything _ ?!"

"The point was to  _ learn _ , Skye! Not get yourself killed like an idiot!"

The outburst feels like a slap in the face. Only now you notice you're crying. You let out a frustrated shriek. Stand up, pace, pull at your hair. This is ridiculous. This is stupid. There is literally only a thing you could barely call a door between you and a crazy serial killer. She was caught off guard. You have the upper hand.  _ You have the upper hand _ !

You pull your bag in front of you and rummage through it. Look for keys, pens, anything pointy or sharp to use as a weapon if you need to. Jane can see your train of thought. You know he doesn't like it. But there's something in his demeanor that makes you stop. Bring the strap of your bag over your head, and drop it to the ground.

"You have a gun." It's 99% a statement, but you aren't entirely sure.

"I'm not giving it to you, Skye."

"You don't have to!" You gesture wildly at the "door" behind you. "Come with me, for fuck's sake! Lisbon or whoever the hell is on their way won't make it here on time! That girl's probably already dead because of your stupid ass dithering!"

You feel the shame crawl up your spine like sludge. It makes you feel like gagging, but your stand your ground. There's an iciness to Jane's eyes that you do your best to ignore. He pulls out of a pistol from the back of his waistband, cocks it, holds it like he knows what he's doing.

You hope he does because you sure as hell don't.

You dash toward the door and tear it off its pathetic excuse for hinges and run headlong into the swallowing darkness of the cliffside cave.

* * *

Several things happen.

First, it's dark. Miserably dark. You can't see anything in front of you. The air is surprisingly stagnant and each breath feels empty. You have no idea how anyone could navigate around without a ridiculously powerful flashlight. This makes you worry. You eventually remember to take out your phone and turn on the flashlight.

Second, there are clothes everywhere, and the cave looks hastily carved out. Rough edges everywhere, stones jutting out. You see roots here and there. But the clothes startle you most. All women's clothing, some dirtier than others. It unnerves you the most that there doesn't seem to be a speck of blood anywhere.

Third is the eerie calm. You can only hear your own breathing and heartbeat. You know Jane is behind you; his footsteps crunch in the gravel of the floor just like yours. But it's like sound can't reach your here. Like there's a giant buffer all around you that muffles everything.

None of this makes sense to you. There are no rooms here, no passages shooting into open spaces. The tunnel just keeps going and going. You walk for almost five minutes before you stop. You hear Jane ask you if anything's wrong before turning around.

"I heard a woman screaming from inside here," you state, looking around nervously. You point your phone's light at various spots in the walls around you, hoping to find an opening. There are none. "Where was she?"

Mr Jane frowns, and looks around himself in turn. You look up when he does. There isn't any exit above you, but were you looking up before? Could you have missed a drop-off like that before? Were you looking for one? You're about to suggest retracting your steps when you hear something like a twig snap. You freeze, halfway turned towards Jane. He puts a hand on your shoulder, slowly advancing in front of you. Not sure how you feel about him shielding you.

"Think quick," you whisper, putting a hand on Jane's back. "Age demographic of the missing women?"

"Eighteen to twenty four," Jane answers instantly. It's not ideal. And your plan is stupid. Ridiculous. You stay rooted for a second while you decide.

"How bad of an idea is whistling right now?," you ask in another whisper. Jane barely turns his head to look at you.

"Terrible."

Before you can reply, there's a metallic clang ahead of you. Far closer than you thought anything should be. You flash your phone on the ground. It looks like a narrow pipe. Maybe two feet long, a few inches in diameter. Walk ahead several feet to stand where the pipe landed. You point your light straight up into a shaft in the tunnel's ceiling.

A hiss and an arm cover a dirty face. The girl looks to be a few years younger than you. You swear, turn the light away. The shaft is at least two feet above your head, and several fee longer still. The girl peers down, looks close to tears. But she stays quiet.

The bitch of it is that there's no way any human being can pass through that narrow of an opening. You look at your phone screen to confirm: you have no reception in this place. Quietly swear to yourself again, turn to speak with Jane, but he's.

He's just gone.

Panic swells in your chest and makes it hard to breath again. You try to calm yourself. Whisper your mantra of staying calm, breathing and focusing, but that barely works. Shit.  _ Fuck _ .  **_Shit_ ** .

"I'm right here," you whisper up to the girl. She nods. "I'm just turning the light off. I'm staying here." Run a hand to pull at your hair again. Turn the light of your phone off. You have 47% battery left and you have no idea how far that's going to take you here.

Look the way you came: pitch black.  
Look the way you were going: pitch black.

Again, the only sound is your own heavy breathing and the drumming in your head. Try to pay attention to the sound around you for footsteps, but there's nothing. Walk back and forth several steps and hold your arms out to feel. Bump into a few jutting stones in the walls, but nothing else. Fuck. Okay, well, you asked for this. It doesn't make you feel any better, but holding someone accountable (even yourself) makes it a little easier to keep going.

Think quick. Okay. You got this.

You kneel and put your phone on the ground next to you. Untie the laces on both your shoes, tie them together. Tie one end around your phone. You do your best imitation of someone in contemplation in the dark. Take a deep breath. Turn the flashlight back on your phone. Call out to the girl.

"I'm going to try throwing my phone at you, " you whisper. Trying to stay quiet. Place yourself underneath the opening. If it had been just a foot wider... "Try and catch it. Try calling, okay?" 

The girl nods. You nod back. Okay.  
You have one shot at this.

Take another deep breath to steady yourself. Turn the flashlight off, hit the power button so the lock screen comes to life. Bend down a little bit.

And throw the phone up as far and hard as you can.

You can hear the girl scrabbling in surprise. Screw your eyes shut, but you don't hear the familiar sound of an iPhone hitting the ground. You release a shaking breath. Okay, step one down. You have no idea how many more to go. You call out your lock code to the girl, ask her to call the first 916 number in your call history.

As you wait for her to follow your instructions, you hold your breath and pray to whatever's out there that she isn't caught. And that you aren't caught. You palm the keys in your pocket anxiously

You get choked up when you hear the girl begin to talk. You can barely hear her speak a few words before you hear the unmistakable sound of gunshots. You run away from the hole. You don't know if you heard your phone fall. Cover your ears against the resonating sound in the tunnel.

You scream when you feel a hand on your shoulder. And fight against its grip as hard as you can. There's crashing and shooting only a few feet above your head and you are  _ absolutely fucking terrified _ . You calm down only fractionally when you hear a woman's voice, but stay huddled on the ground with your hands on your ears. You're pretty sure you're sobbing. Not sure that the rocking back and forth is your doing; There's an arm across your back with a hand bracing your head, and an arm across the front of your chest pulling you sideways into him.

You can easily tell that there's a gun the hand that isn't running fingers through your hair. You don't make much of it, though. Jane had a gun when he followed you.

It takes you a second to realize your vision is slowly being taken over by the light of a sun only you can see.

* * *

When Jane sees the missing girl's glassy eyes stare down the hole, he runs. He calls back to Skye, but can't take the time to make sure she hears him. He runs towards the opening in the cliffside, runs up the carved stone steps, runs through the house and out onto the street. Dials 911 as soon as his phone decides to give him reception again, and tells the dispatch exactly what's happening. Even gives them Lisbon's badge number, for all the good it'll do. Which probably isn't much.

That's when he notices that there's a car in the driveway that is Distinctly Not His. And it definitely was not there before.

Jane curses and rushes back to the house, but takes his time going through it. He'd looked it over quickly when he and Skye had walked through, but had ultimately been too preoccupied by her being right (about the house, the cliff and the steps) to properly investigate. It was obvious, now that he looked for it; a rug in the dining room that didn't quite completely cover some odd pattern in the hardwood flooring.

Pulling the rug aside reveals what could easily have been mistaken as a really terrible flooring job. Jane knows better. Pulls out all the drawers in the kitchen until he finds a butter knife. Wedges it between two planks and lifts.

It would have been the easiest thing for literally anyone else to miss, but that was definitely someone's attempt at hiding a trap door.

There are no stairs, there's no latter. It's a straight seven foot drop, give or take a few inches. Jane makes sure the safety on the pistol is on before crouching down, and making the drop. The impact doesn't do wonders for his ankles, but he'll save the complaints for later.

The cellar-type room underneath the dining room is eerily similar to one he's been trapped in once before. Shakes the memory; don't have the time for it. Jane does his best to keep an ear out for any sound. It's the only sense he has in the pitch black darkness of the room. There's light coming from somewhere, a door probably, but he can't see it right away. Instead, he focuses on the quiet sound of a girl doing her best at being quiet.

Jane puts one foot forward when the gunshot deafens him. The bullet whizzes by; definitely grazes his cheek. It burns something awful, and for a second he almost feels bad for dragging Skye around with the state her thigh is in.

Doesn't take more than a fraction of a second before he draws and levels his gun in the approximate location of the shooter. Flicks off the safety and squeezes the trigger. There's the distinct sound of splintering wood and scrambling footsteps, then nothing. Jane curses and ducks blindly, looks for cover. He can hear the other shooter moving several feet away. His knee meets something that feels like a coffee table; good enough.

Jane flips what is probably a table, aims straight ahead and shoots.

The bullet hits either stone or metal. Either way, it does exactly what he needs. The spark of metal against something solid creates enough of a spark for Jane to see the blurred features of a woman

Hair’s too short.  
Frame too wide.  
A second one?

Below him, he hears Skye scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I actually updated on a Saturday.


	11. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING : 
> 
> There is a brief mention of sexual assault; if you're sensitive to this, please read with caution.

Bright and searing white-gold-yellow fills your vision. It feels like a migraine. You know it isn’t one. You think you initially scream, but with the gunshots, your ears ring too much to be sure. You can feel arms propping you up. Hear the voice that tries to cajole you. You just don’t have it in you to fight. The pain is too intense and you are blind.

“It’s okay,” she says, pets your hair and cards her fingers through it. “You’re like me. I’ll make you safe. We belong together.”

Your stomach flips. No way to tell if it’s from disgust, fear or the pain. You stumble several times as you’re dragged around. You can’t imagine how this woman is navigating without light. How long as she used this place? Did she dig out the tunnel? How long is it? How many are there?

The smell of smoke burns at your nose. The arm at your shoulder stops you and rivets you in place. You dig the butts of your palm into your eyes to try and alleviate the throbbing pain in your skull. There’s something sweet but off about everything. The air makes you feel sick. You still can’t see anything. Looks like stars are bouncing around the sun that consumes your vision.

The woman steps away from you and walks ahead. The blinding light begins to subside. The pit in your stomach tells you it’s too late.

You’re angry at yourself when you look around. It feels like you only walked maybe two dozen more meters further than where you’d seen the girl. Yet, there you are, in what is unmistakably a cellar. The woman-the EMT-stands in the middle of the room with arms spread wide. Like this is a gift.

No. No, you realize, this is an offering. By the dark stains on the worn concrete floor, you can only guess how many people were made the same offer.

You don’t speak.

“This can all be yours,” the woman begins, looking all around. You can admit that for a cellar that has a shoddy tunnel leading to the beachfront, it’s not horrible. The floor is as clean as it can be. There are curtains hanging on the walls here and here. All of them awful mismatched colours. There are several oil lamps scattered around. Small doing coffee tables next to pairs of squat but sturdy-looking chairs.

What perplexes you is the giant pile of comforters, pillows, cushions and shawls that are stacked in the centre of the room.

There’s some kind of a diagram under the whole mess. Even if you could, you don’t want to make an educated guess. You don’t want to know what this place is used for.

“We can have all the time in the world, Skye!,” she exclaims, twirling around and dropping back into the cushions. Only the soreness in your muscles and the throbbing behind your eyes makes it tempting.

“Time for what?” Your voice wavers. It’s small, pitched. You’re trying not to sound too terrified; help is on the way, Mr Jane is somewhere in this place and has a gun.

And this woman seems to have a vested interest in you. Maybe you can stall long enough to not die horribly. Not here, at least.

“Time to learn!” Like it was the most obvious thing. She leaps back into her feet and rushes to you. Grabs your hand in hers. They’re clammy and uncomfortable. You school your face into worried curiosity. “People like us, Skye, they don’t exist just everywhere. I’ve tried so hard to find you! Someone like you!”

She laughs. While the setting definitely confirms that this woman is completely off her rocker, she sounds... excited. If it weren’t for the fact that you were several feet underground in a fucking creepy hideout, you might actually feel happy for this woman.

The white-hot light slowly returns to claim your vision. This time, though, the murderous EMT seems to recognize the expression of pain on you. She let’s go of your hands.

“Sorry! Sorry, geez, you really are sensitive to that kind of stuff, aren’t you?” This woman, at least twice your age, giggles. A bubbly, high-pitched sound. “I learned to drown that out a long time ago. But tell me all about it! Tell me about the readings! The dreams! When did you realize you were a witch?”

This conversation is unreal in the worst possible ways.

With every second you spend in silence, the woman’s face falls progressively more. You realize that playing along is the best way to buy yourself some time. Your dignity can afford to get bruised if it means the rest of you can live.

“I was uh, in high school, I guess? I mean i don’t really remember...” You trail off when the woman throws herself back into the cushions. She pats a spot next to her. You eye the lack of potential distance like it’s a starving shark.

You sit down nonetheless. Can still feel the muscles between your ribs trembling. Take a few deep breaths to at least make a cursory attempt to not look like you’re about to die. Even though you might be. You drop your back at the edge of the pile of pillows and slowly sit down. The woman scoots closer.

You launch into as lengthy an account of your paranormal experiences as you can. The pit in your stomach doesn’t go away. You’re done too quickly; you’re not that old. High school wasn’t that long ago. There are only so many instances you can talk about regarding premonitions and prophetic dreams and tarot reading before the Murderous EMT waves a hand to silence you.

She seems pleased, at least, if a little bored. But there’s a predatory quality in her smile that settles something inside of you. The pit in your stomach melts.

You recognize this feeling as resignation. Help probably won’t come to you in time.

The words the woman whispers in your ear are lost to you. You probably reply. Maybe you don’t. You can feel cold finger trace up your stomach, card through and tangle in your hair. There are dry lips and your neck and the white-hot sun begins to blot your vision.

Your shirt is gone.

Your chest is cold. You get your loosely balled hands by your head when you’re pushed down into the cushions.

“I’ll show you everything they wanted to hide from you, Skye.”

Your jeans are halfway down your legs when the pain in your head explodes from the sound. It’s a gunshot.

And the sun is fading.

And there’s something warm on your face.

It takes you too long to realize it isn’t your tears.  
  


* * *

  
You pass through several hands.

Agent Van Pelt takes your statement first. You appreciate the choice of agent. You like her. Calm. Understanding. Emotional. She does her best not to touch you as you pull at the blanket around your shoulder, mechanically recite the events of the day.

You recite them with a little tweaking, anyways.

When Jane found you he made very sure to instruct you. Do your best impression of a clueless girl in shock, he said. You don’t have time to feel flattered that he thinks you’ve got your shit together. You don’t. Not even minimally.

You’re then handed to the paramedics. You’re given anti-axieulitics and very strongly advised to go to a hospital at your earliest convenience. Not the least of which is to take a look at the burning, sore wound at your thigh. They wanted to change the dressing in the ambulance. Your deer-in-headlights look tells them you aren’t remotely ready to bear any part of your body to anyone right now.

They concede and let you go.

At the front of the house you see Agent Lisbon talking with Mr Jane. She seems upset. Livid, actually; she’s gesturing wildly, when her hands aren’t digging into her hips. The frown seems permanently etched on her face.

Then Jane looks at you. You turn to look away, but not after you see him wave off Lisbon. You can almost hear her angrily sputter. You can hear his footfalls; he practically runs to you. You keep your head down. Can’t look anyone in the eye right now, least of all him.

“I’m sorry, Skye,” are the first words Mr Jane says when he opens the car door. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. You forgive it. You don’t know what to do with any part of you.

You look up at him. Your eyes burn from the crying and you blink too much. It hurts to try and take deep breaths. Pray that he knows what you want to ask, because the words die in your chest along with your breaths.

He looks... sad. Distressed. Distinctly like a man whose plan was thrown out the window for the worst. Seems to flail for a second before settling his hands on the steering wheel. You can almost hear his jaw click shut every time he tenses it.

“I didn’t...,” Jane starts, but trails off. Makes the wheel squeak as he twists his hands around it. “There was another woman, a little older than you. That’s what the first round of gunshots were.”

The word makes you flinch nearly as much as the sound itself. Your gut twists.

When’s the last time you ate?

Mr Jane points at the comically large piece of gauze on his left cheek. “She was talking about a new order. Sounded like something straight out of a comic book, really. Completely crazy.” Turns to look at you but your eyes are glued to the dashboard. Nod to show you heard. “She said you were being recruited, like she was. Didn’t say what for, but I can make an educated guess.”

Swallow past the lump in your throat. You could also make an educated guess. But you don’t. You don’t want to think about cold, clammy fingers on your skin.

“Right. I should take you ho—“

“No,” you croak. Panic bubbles up in your chest. Fills up the space that air used to take. “Not—no. Please.”

You aren’t sure if Jane heard you until he stills for a second, hand hovering with the keys next to the ignition. It takes a second, but eventually the car revs to life, and takes off. Mr Jane determinedly ignores anyone who tries to get his attention and drives off.

You almost feel bad for stealing the EMT’s blanket. But it feels like a twisted, bittersweet victory.

You ignore the body bags you can still see in the rear view mirror.  
  


* * *

  
You shouldn’t be surprised that the CBI has locked rooms and showers. You almost run to them once Jane points them out to you. Your thigh burns horribly and the hot water doesn’t help. You stay under the steaming spray for longer than strictly necessary. You don’t think anyone particularly mind or cares.

You spend too long washing blood that isn’t on your face anymore. Scrub violently at your forehead, your eyelids, your lips. Try and flush out your nose.

Mostly, you try and forget the horrible images you saw when the woman’s blood spattered over you.

Straight shot to the temple.

Which is ironic given that she wanted to build a temple. To herself. To you. To your kind. A breed of human disregarded and disposed of and ignored for centuries.

Thinking for a second that you had anything in common with that woman—those women, now you know—makes you scratch and scrub at your arms and legs. Your stomach. You feel like peeling the skin off of yourself. Nothing feels clean enough. Everything feels dirty. The water’s clear but everything feels _completely and absolutely tarnished_.

When you look at yourself in a mirror, you feel alien. Touch your face, press into your cheeks. Pull down your eyelids and push your nose this way and that. It’s still you. But somehow, not. More. Less. You aren’t sure.

The Murderous EMT had strange skills, just like you. Could tell how people were feeling just by being in the room with them. It was why she became an EMT in the first place. But, slowly, it wore at her mind. Gnawed at it like vermin. She had no control, felt everything, everywhere, all the time. Could stopper the bottle of emotions spilling it of everyone around her.

The first time she killed was for her own sake. The next was out of curiosity.

The third time was because of rejection.

You screw your eyes shut against the mirror image of you and pull at your hair. You shouldn’t know this. There’s no reason for you to know this as clearly as you do.

But she wanted you to know.

Painted a bloody line across your lips as she fell and let you know everything.

You rush to get dressed; plaid flannel pants three sizes too big and an oversized sweater from an obscure university you never heard of. All various hues of wine red. It makes the dark circles under your eyes look like bruises.

It’s fitting.

Mr Jane is waiting for you in the hallway. Eyes closed, arms crossed, leaning against the opposite wall. Opens his eyes when he hears you approach. You can’t find it in yourself to feel self-conscious when he gives you a once-over. It’s clinical; he’s assessing damage, both physical and other.

You guess he sees a lot. Says nothing; offers a bend elbow to you and guides you through the CBI headquarters, to the back, up the stairs and into his makeshift hideout. There are two mismatched chairs by his desk in front of two steaming teacups in their saucer.

You start crying again as soon as you sit down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I've only maybe got a few more chapters in me for this story! This might be one of the like, two fanfics I'll have ever written to completion. I'm getting a little excited..!


	12. Champagne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough month; I've moved out at the end of Feb and didn't really have internet up until two weeks later. The new job is... tiresome. But I've been sitting on this chapter for the past two weeks, so I really have no excuse?

Patrick Jane helps you through your sobbing the only way you believe he knows how to. For a few minutes, he lets you cry. Vent, really. When the tea begins to cool beyond Peak Consumption Temperature, he begins to talk. 

 And, really, doesn't stop.

He talks about how the older woman you saw was the original killer. Explains to you what you already know about her motives. You aren't sure how Mr Jane could possibly know this, too, but he does. He says that she was targeting young women because she believed them closer to the truest human nature. She killed those who looked down on her and belittled her. And eventually she found someone worth keeping around.

It was a murderous cult was what it was. In the end, it was someone who had gone off the deep end and took their passion too far. You don't have it in you to argue. He isn't completely wrong, but you can't find the words (or the air in your lungs) to explain what exactly it was. Not that Jane would believe you even if you did.

By this point in the conversation, despite yourself, you drink. Camomille probably. You can feel it calm you. You stare down into the cup while he speaks. You don’t dissociate. Not really. But you blank out for a few seconds long enough for it to be noticeable. Slack jaw. Slumped shoulder. Vacant expression. You tense when you see a hand approach you before realizing Mr Jane is just taking the cup and saucer away from you.

“I can help you with that,” he says, calmly and quietly. You find yourself nodding without thinking. Frown into your empty hands.

“Help me with what?” You don’t look up. You know what he’ll say and how he looks at you.

“That depends on what you want,” is Mr Jane’s typical non-answer. “I can make you forget. It’s temporary, but it works. For a while. Or,” he leans forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and threading his hands in front of him. “I can teach you.”

The tone of his voice is serious. No kidding, no joke. He wants to teach you something. Now you look up. The intensity in his eyes almost makes you sweat.

“Teach me what?”

A grin fit for the devil spreads across Jane’s face, white teeth showing.

“How to sharpen that fear into a knife.”

Your tears are still drying on your face. But slowly, quietly, you can feel something hungry expand in your chest.

 

* * *

The first exercise is in a bar. A dive bar. Sleazy, questionably sanitary and filled with even more questionable characters. The beer’s not even that good. You drink it anyways. It makes it easier to talk. Removes your bias.

That’s what Jane says, anyways. Part of you can believe it. The other part believes in ulterior motives.

It takes the time of a beer and a half before he wanders off. Orders you to watch closely what happens, to try and memorize every movement he makes. No matter how small it may seem, you are asked to track everything. The small rub of his thumb when he shakes a woman’s hand. The lack of any nervous tics altogether. Slow, deliberate blinking. Leaning in for conversation. Everything about Jane’s posture screams “I’m paying attention to you and only you”.

The woman excuses herself and grabs her jacket. Jane makes his way back towards you with a martini he didn’t have before. As the woman thread an arm through a sleeve, she pauses, shoulders the rest of the jacket, and reaches into the left pocket. You already know what’s in there, but the surprise on her face shows that she had no idea. She looks around to find a familiar dirty blonde head, but gives up after a few seconds.

She exits the bar with a smile on her face and her phone in her hands.

“That was smooth,” you comment, eyes glued to the door shutting behind the woman. “She seemed pissed that you even came up to her until you shook her hand.” You turn to Mr Jane. His face is plastered with a look of pride and satisfaction. “Is this witchcraft?”

He lets out a quiet bark of laughter. “No, my dear, that is just the simplicity of the human mind.” Places a hand on your shoulder and queezes. “It’s easy to make anyone like you as long as you push the right buttons.”

You’re too distracted by the warmth of his hand to mention that his phone hasn’t gone off yet.

You can’t put words to it yet, but there’s an idea slowly sprouting somewhere in the back of your mind.

“So, tell me,” the hand disappears from your shoulder. Jane sits back on his stool and sips at his martini. “What did you see?”

You look down for a few seconds, gather your thoughts. You saw a lot of things. Thought honestly, you can dismiss about half of them. Grab your beer and take a swig straight from the bottle before you can speak.

“You were always turned towards her, that’s the first thing I noticed,” you begin, eyes still unfocused, aimed somewhere at the floor. “Your feet were always pointed towards her, which I think is one of those subconsciously-read body language things about attentiveness. You kept your arms open and wide apart. That would look inviting I guess. And you hunched your shoulders a little bit when you first walked over. Probably because you didn’t want to look like one of those cocksure self-important assholes?”

A quiet snort and a hint of a grin. Alright, not bad, you’re on the right track. Straighten yourself on your stool and grab your beer with both hands. Look up directly at Jane.

“The handshake; you did that thing where you rub with your thumb. She looked weirded out by that, but seemed to relax when she realized you didn’t look nervous. You put yourself between her and the rest of the crowd, but in a way that I think gave the illusion of privacy? You didn’t impose yourself so much that it looked like you were boxing her in. She had the option to walk away any time she wanted.”

You’re about to continue when two things happen: Jane looks above and beyond your right shoulder and you can feel more than see the shadow that someone is casting down on you. Already hate the vibe. And the smell. Can’t fathom why anyone would want to bathe in anything related to Axe. You cast a withering look at Jane; though he looks some measure of upset, you know that look. It’s a challenge.

Alright. Sure. You’ve done significantly worse over the past several days. Turning down an arrogant idiot should be a piece of cake.

Turn around on your stool to greet the intruder. He has already made the mistake of being far too close to you. Your face is level with one of his pectorals. Jock #1 is “casually” leaning against a bar. Does his best impression of someone who is failing to look uninterested. He looks at you like he’s just noticed you. Or, at least, you figure that’s the look he’s going for. It isn’t working.

You keep your expression flat. He’s clearly expecting you to ask something. Who he is, what he wants. You keep quiet. The man looks more and more uncomfortable until he finally breaks the silence.

“I, uh. Hi.” He at least has the decency to cringe.

“I was shot in the leg a few days ago, I was targeted by a serial killer and her equally psychotic sidekick, had brain matter splatter on my face no sooner than a few hours ago, and I really just want to get shitfaced and forget about it in pleasant, intelligible company. You feel like you can have a five minute conversation with me that won’t bore me to death? Give it a shot. Otherwise I’m going to stay here, have another shitty beer in this shitty bar and lament my shitty life with the only not shitty thing to have been in it in the past five days.”

Stare intently at the man. He is completely slacked-jawed. Mutters a quick apology, grabs his half-empty beer back from the counter and walks away much faster than he arrived. You breathe out a sigh of relief. Turn back to Jane to find him looking deep in contemplation. Quickly look away and down the rest of your bottle of beer. It stings in your throat and tears. Ask for another one. Three beers is probably too much, but whatever. Jane offered to pay. You aren’t one to squander an opportunity to get drunk on someone else’s dollar.

Jane waits until you’ve dragged a third of your beer. “Your turn.”

You almost sputter, but don’t. You knew what this was about. Grab your beer and stand and do your best impression of someone who isn’t you.

“Alright, sure. Who?,” you ask, looking around the bar. Not much to pick from. You catch the obnoxious Axe man from before shooting you furtive looks. You hope he doesn’t think he’s being subtle.

“That one,” Jane says, pulling your attention in the direction he nods his head.

It’s an older man, sitting alone under a window. He’s got at least a decade and a half on you. Something in you bristles at it; you wouldn’t have dared approach him sober. But drunk you can acknowledge that man is absolutely your type.

You don’t ask anything. Jane’s probably done the preliminary background check in his head already. You aren’t too worried. Take a deep breath. Another. Turn around an stride on forward.

 

* * *

You exit the Citroen more gracefully than you’d have thought possible. And also far more dramatically. Jane brought you back to the CBI office. Not sure why. You don’t question it; you don’t feel like going home anyways. You were hunted down before, you could be again. Feels like everyone is painting a bull’s eye on you.

Swat away Jane’s hand when he offers to help you walk to the door. Mutter something about not being a goddamn child. You bump shoulder as you walk. More accurate, your should bumps his bicep.

“You almost had him, you know,” Jane says airily. Trails off like he wants to say something else, but you know he won’t. All it does is burn your pride even more.

Shove him with your elbow. He barely moves. “Shut up. Okay? Shut—just, shut up.” Wait patiently to be let into the building. Someone from security nods at Jane. You try to remember to ask him if he actually lives here later.

You fall asleep on a leather couch covered by a knit blanket. 

* * *

You wake up with the suggestion of a headache. The lights are too bright. Despite their deliberately hushed tones, you can hear Jane argue with someone. Sounds like Agent Lisbon. You pretend to still be sleeping. It isn’t hard. There’s a pause when Jane speaks that makes you think he noticed, thought.

“You can’t keep taking her back here, Jane!,” you hear Lisbon whisper. She doesn’t sound pleased. “This is the CBI, not your personal hotel!”

Shame crawls under your skin and feels like ice in your veins. You weren’t sober enough last night to realize that crashing at the CBI, in plain sight, probably wasn’t a good idea.

Jane’s muttering is too quiet for you to understand anything he says. Sounds like he’s getting further away; taking Lisbon away from you? You appreciate the distraction. You aim to get up slowly, but you’re greeted with a glass of water and what you expect are aspirin. Practically kilo out of your skin at the sight of someone holding them out to you.

You take the offered water and pills with a quiet thank you. Down them and chug the rest of the water. Hand the glass back, but don’t let go of it right away. You look at the man expectantly.

“...fine. I’m Agent Cho,” he concedes. You let go of the glass.

“Benraft,” you answer shortly. The look he gives you is confusing. You ultimately settle for feeling proud. Agent Cho gives you a nod before standing and going off somewhere out of sight.

A quick look around reveals that no one is at their desk. Good. You take the chance to escape. Make your way as best you can to the stairway that leads to Mr Jane’s hideout. You don’t expect the sliding steel door to be unlocked. And it isn’t; you tug a few times. No give.

You let yourself slide down against the door, sit on the ground in a huff. There isn’t much for you to do. You wait five minutes. Ten. Thirty. And no Jane to be found. You’re reluctant to use your phone battery more than necessary. It takes some debating, but ultimately a trip to any kind of store is probably preferable to waiting like a lost puppy.

You almost don’t get lost getting to and out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me where you think this is going! Where would you like it to go? Is there anything you would have changed in this chapter? Let me know! I'm think of rewriting this chapter, so any input helps!


	13. Cider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this because you got an update notification, thank you so much for bearing with me. New job and new place and new cat have all been very overwhelming. Honestly, this chapter has been sitting in my phone for a while now; I just couldn't figure out how to continue for the life of me. But now I know! Here you go! I'll try not to make you wait months for the next update!

It doesn’t take you long. Once you’re outside of the CBI, the air feels different. You watch the people walk by. Drive by. Hear the cars rev and stall and honk. It’s almost overwhelming. You shrug your bag higher on your shoulder, pull out your phone. You have so many missed calls and messages that your phone has opted out of counting them. 

It is absolutely a spur of the moment decision, but you call one of your coworkers. Take a chance.

“Skye? Is that you? Oh my god! Oh my go—Luce! It’s Skye!” Miranda’s at work then. Marvelous. You hear several people through her phone. Sounds like people are shoving at each other to talk to you.

“Skye? Benraft, Skye? The one who got shot and didn’t tell me, that Skye?,” your manager demands. You can’t help but laugh nervously.

“Yeah, uh. Hi Lucy,” you reply lamely. You shuffle down the road you’re on. There should be a Starbucks nearby. Right? “I have a crazy favour. Who’s off today and doesn’t hate me?"

You hear Lucy pull the phone away and ask around. Hear the ruffling of pages; looking through the schedule, probably.

“Charlie doesn’t work today,” Lucy trails off. More papers rustle. “Steph, too, and Bill? Probably? What’s the favour? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! I’m fine, kind of. Is anyone willing to make a trip to Sacramento?” 

* * *

Stephan is eventually tasked with picking you up. You found a Starbucks to spend your time in. The two and a half hour wait is gruelling. You look over your shoulder every other time you hear the door open. You feel like a teenager that sneaked out past curfew. It’s ridiculous—you weren’t being kept at the CBI for any real reason, you’d already given as many statements as you could—but it still feels like running away.

It also feels like spitting in the face of Patrick Jane and his hospitality. However much it may have been in spite of literally everyone else around him.

Stephan, blissfully, is the kind of person who understands. He stays mostly quiet during the trip back to Yuca. Gives you control of the aux cord. You make sure to keep the volume low and the songs aligned with his tastes.

He doesn’t drop you off at home, not yet. You walk into work, hailed like a hero. You hate it. Someone bumps into your thigh, makes it feel like your whole leg is bruised.

You should really shower. Again. You can still smell the tea in your hair. Ultimately, you keep quiet. Lucy needs to sort out how the hell you’re going to get paid. If you are. Beyond being alive and able to return to your life, you don’t care about the details.

You miss your bed.

Lucy personally takes you back to your apartment. You try insisting that it’s completely pointless. She doesn’t hear any of it. She drops you off with a promise to be back tomorrow. You’re told to go see a doctor for your bullet graze and not to come into work until Monday.

This is when you realize that it’s Wednesday. You had no idea what day it was. A look at the stove’s display says you had no idea what time it was either. The sun’s barely beginning to set. You try not to wonder where the day went.

You shower. Change. Brush your hair absently. It looks like half of it fell off on the brush. You bake a frozen chicken pot pie and proceed to eat the entire thing to yourself. Binge watch YouTube videos.

You fall asleep to the hum of your vibrating phone and words ringing in your head.

_Sharpen that fear into a knife._

 

* * *

You wake up to one missed call and one voice message. You don’t recognize the number. Something in the back of your sleep addled brain tells you who it is. You ignore it until you’ve had your coffee.

“Skye. Call me.” That’s it. That’s the whole message Mr Jane left. You have a warm cup of coffee in one hand and phone in the other. You check Facebook and Instagram. Go through Tumblr. It’s nearly ten in the morning before you consider calling back.

You don’t. You send a text message and save the number. You barely have time to put your phone back down before it starts buzzing.

“Hi,” is the best greeting you can manage. Clear your throat.

“Where are you?” He’s worried. It makes your throat clench even more.

“I’m—I came home yesterday,” you start. Cut him off to continue explaining. “I had someone from work come to get me. I’m alright. I just... I heard Agent Lisbon, I just. I didn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” Jane whispers. You can hear the understanding in the quiet tone. You don’t sigh despite your relief. “You’re back in Yuba then?”

Wait a beat. “Yeah. Should I ask why?”

“I’m taking you out tonight. Be ready at six.” You don't have time to ask what you’re supposed to wear before the line is dead. You stare at your phone incredulously while the dead line screams angrily at you.

It’s barely seven past ten. You’ve got eight hours to get ready. This... theoretically shouldn’t be a problem. Right? 

* * *

It’s 5:55PM and you still can’t decide what to wear. In a fit of desperation, you find a coin to toss in the air. Heads, the dress. Tails, the blouse and black pants.

It lands on tails

You throw on the dress anyways. It’s your favourite cut, and you can never go wrong with a black dress. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

You nearly jump out of your skin when your phone vibrates with a text message. You don’t even read it; just toss your phone and its charger in your purse along with your wallet, slip into some comfortable black flats and bolt out the door. Which you _almost_ forget to lock behind you.

You all but throw yourself in the waiting Citroen. Jane only glances at you out of the corner of his eye. Takes a few minutes into the drive for him to speak up.

“You clean up nice,” is all he says, eyes never leaving the road.

You also keep your eyes glued ahead. Shrug, Fisher with a fistful if black dress. “You always wear a suit and you didn’t tell me what I should wear. I made a safe bet.”

The rest of the drive is quiet. No radio, no conversation. You could probably get answers if you ask questions, but... you find yourself not needing answers. Despite everything you know and everything that’s happened, you find yourself trusting this man entirely. Even if he does use you as bait for another criminal hunt, he wouldn’t let you die, right?

The familiar clenching in your gut reminds you that you are, in fact, extremely nervous. Feels like ice pulsing through your veins for a second. Close your eyes, take a deep breath; don’t give yourself any ideas. Don’t expect anything. Just go with it.

The restaurant you end up at is something you definitely can’t afford. The kind of place with an actual dress code. You look at Jane, try to read _something_ on his face. Did he know you’d dress up? Did he make an educated guess? Was this his plan A or B? Shake yourself out of it when Jane steps out of his car. He walks around to open the door for you and extends his hand to help you out. Then promptly tosses the key over the hood to... a valet? Christ, you really can’t afford this place.

Jane puts your hand in the crook of his elbow and guides you towards glass french doors. “Don’t worry,” he whispers conspirationally, leaning down. “The owner owes me a favour for discovering that his chef was running a drug ring in his kitchen.”

Choke on yourself a little; you definitely weren’t expecting that. Not sure what you were expecting, but definitely not that. Ignore the bought. The drug ring is gone. There’s nothing to worry about.

When Jane leads you inside, you try to school your face. It’s _fancy_. Regardless of your wardrobe choice you feel obnoxiously underdressed. Even if you wanted to, you don’t have time to take in the setting. There’s a very noticeable table at the back of the place, off to your right. Two men in suits with too much bulk and an old man that looks like he has enough money to buy the entire restaurant and the people in it. You don’t snap your head away; too obvious. You make it look like you’re scoping the place out. Not sure what your expression is going. What’s Jane doing to your left hand..?

“Good evening, name?” The host a greetings soft and almost enough to soothe your nerves. Almost. Shouldn’t be a surprise that Jane has a reservation. The restaurant is almost full; how long ago had he planned this? Were you a last-minute switch, a stand-in for someone else? What was going on?

“Mr and Mrs Jane, thank you.”

You do your best to breathe.  
In.  
And out.

You do your best to make it look like you just aren’t used to the change in name yet. But your mind stutters at the implication. Okay, you’re trying to fly under the radar. Why? The not-at-all-mobsters table? Is there something else you’re missing? Who are you trying to fool?

“Congratulations! I’ll be sure to let the chef know.” The host’s voice eventually snaps you out of your thoughts and you nod as excitedly as you can muster, letting Mr Jane lead you by the arm.

“You’re doing great. Just keep playing along,” Jane whispers into your ear. You do your best impression of a flustered and embarrassed new wife. It isn’t hard. Jane’s proximity to your ear makes the blood rush to your face. It’s stupid. At any other time you would shaken your head clear and tried to focus on something else.

But there’s nothing else to focus on. Once you’re seated, the table is too small for you to really fidget. And then Mr Jane leans forward and out both his hands in the table. Palms up. _Ah fuck_. Alright. Okay.

You carefully place your hands into his. You single the ring finger in your left hand. That must have been what you felt. A dainty soaking ring glints there. And somehow fits perfectly. You try not to think about it too much.

“You saw them earlier,” Jane start quietly. The corners of his mouth pull up inmmimicry of a man trying to had his laughter. He leans forward; you follow suit. Try to ignore how close his face is. This is serious.

“The scary money man and his two stooges?,” you ask to confirm. He nods. “What about them?”

“Oh, absolutely nothing. Vasily Dostoyev is just another old man with money. We’re here for his son.” Mr Jane moves his eyes somewhere behind you. Try to remember who all else was at that table. Two goons, Old Money man, Trophy Wife... maybe the one sitting a little ways off staring out the window like the street lamps were about to kill him?

Jane must see the look of recognition on your face and nods. Rubs circles in the backs of your hands with his thumbs. It feels very reminiscent of the first night you spent at the CBI.

“So why am I here?”

Jane releases your hand to cup your face in his hands. You feel like your skin is about to combust. He leans forward to press his forehead against yours.

“You, my dear, are going to test your knife tonight.”

A waiter brings two large classes of wine. Jane raises his in a toast to you. And while anxiety bubbles in your chest unpleasantly, there’s something else underneath it that growls, needy and hungry. You clink your glass with his.

“To us,” you offer, hoping the fear and uncertainty in your voice can be misconstrued and excitement.

Jane’s expression changes in a way you can barely see or understand. Here’s something dark lurking just under the surface. You could see it, if only you could just dig a little.

“To us indeed.”


End file.
